/i 


Birds  of  a  Feather 


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Birds  of  a  Feather 

By 
Marcel  Nadaud 


Translated  from  the  French  by 
Florence  Converse 


Garden  City  New  York 

Doubledayy  Page  ^  Company 

J919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


CO?TRIOHT,  1918,  I919,  BT  THl  ATT.AWTIC  MOMTBLY  COMPAVT 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     Four  of  a  Kind     .....  3 

II.     The  Climbers 45 

III.  Exit  Flagada 102 

IV.  The  Best  Way 149 


394109 


Birds  of  a  Feather 


"Birds  of  a  Feather 
I 

FOUR  OF  A  KIND 

I.       R.    G.    A. 

UNDER  the  pavilion  of  the  Gare  du 
Nord  Papa  Charles  waited  pa- 
tiently for  Chignole  and  Flagada, 
with  whom  he  was  to  take  the  six-o'clock  train 
for  Plessis-Belleville.  He  had  parted  from 
them  about  midnight,  after  the  Bassinets' 
dinner;  a  gay  little  dinner,  at  which  M.  Bassi- 
net, slightly  elevated,  had  proposed  a  number 
of  rococo  toasts  to  victory,  to  the  soldiers  "on 
the  job,"  and  especially  to  the  aviators — 
"those  heerroes!" — and  Flagada  had  cap- 
tured the  assembly  with  several  monologues 
in  his  best  vein. 

[3l 


.:.\,:^  Birds  of  a  Feather 

The  ladies  had  not  been  so  merry.  Ma- 
dame Bassinet  bitterly  bewailed  her  sauces, 
which  disappointed  her  fastidious  palate: 

"But  it  is  all  your  fault.  A  good  dinner 
must  not  be  kept  waiting,  and  you  were  a 
full  hour  late." 

"I  have  already  told  you,  Ma'me  Bassinet, 
that  these  children  had  their  little  special 
engagements.     I  know  what  it  is  to  be  young. 

Listen,  gentlemen;  I — yes,  I ";  and  M. 

Bassinet  was  in  the  middle  of  one  of  his 
raciest  stories  before  a  withering  glance  from 
his  wife  could  warn  him  of  Sophie's  presence. 

"Oh,  little  daughter,  little  daughter,  do 
hurry  up  and  get  married!  Then  I  shan't 
have  to  be  forever  twisting  my  tongue  seven 
times  over  before  I  dare  speak." 

"But,  Papa,  is  it  I  who  make  the  delay? 
As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  cannot  be  too 
soon.    And — I  think  Chignole  agrees  with 


me. 


Chignole  did  not  answer,  he   closed   his 
eyes,  the  better  to  commune  with  his  soul, 
and  bent  his  head  in  fervent  acquiescence. 
[4] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

If  the  truth  were  told,  he  was  a  bit  ashamed, 
and  secretly  reproached  himself:  "You  have 
been  outrageously  silly,  my  poor  Chignole,  to 
let  your  head  be  turned  till  you  forgot  your 
own  little  Paris,  Sophie,  the  good  work-a- 
day  Hfe.  Of  course,  it  was  the  fault  of  that 
damnable  climate  of  the  Cote  d'Azur,  which 
goes  to  your  head  like  a  slow  waltz  or  like  one 
of  Papa  Charles's  amber-tipped  cigarettes. 
Yes;  I  confess;  I  was  an  ass.  It  is  risky  for 
a  man  to  look  on  at  such  a  fairy  show  as  that; 
he  wants  to  be  somebody. — ^And  because 
I  dressed  the  part,  I  thought  I  was  the  hero. 
— ^Ah!  such  an  idiot!" 

No;  Sophie  was  not  to  be  compared  to 
those  women  down  there:  those  parasites, 
languidly  parading  their  insatiable  curiosity; 
those  seaside  belles;  those  bold-eyed  women  of 
Piedmont  gathering  tuberoses  in  the  gardens 
of  Cimiez.  No;  she  was  not  at  all  complex, 
the  little  stenographer;  but  he  knew  her  to 
be  so  loyal,  so  sincere,  so  devoted,  so  perfectly 
his  own,  that  he  could  not  but  prefer  her  to 
those  others. 

[s] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"It  is  quite  true,  my  children,  I  don't 
deny  it;  we  might  have  taken  advantage  of 
Chignole's  convalescent  leave  to  celebrate 
your  marriage,  but  primo,  our  ace  has  de- 
cided to  cut  it  short  in  order  to  go  back  im- 
mediately with  his  chief,  and  deucio,  we  are 
at  war.     A  conventional  Paris  wedding — how 

dull!     I  have  therefore  decided "     (M. 

Bassinet  lifted  an  Olympian  eyebrow  and 
emptied  his  glass.)  "You  are  never  billeted 
on  the  firing-line;  always  some  kilometres 
behind;  so,  the  moment  you  are  settled  in 
your  new  quarters,  we  plan  to  arrive  in  the 
neighbouring  town;  and  there,  close  to  the 
front,  as  gay  as  you  please,  you  shall  be  joined 
together.     I  have  said  it." 

"And  what  if  someone  rings  the  concierge's 
bell  while  I  am  gone  ? " 

"Ma 'me  Bassinet,  we  can  pay  for  a  sub- 
stitute. What  is  the  sense  of  putting  away 
money  for  our  funeral,  these  twenty  years, 
if  we  may  not  nibble  at  it  in  honour  of  little 
daughter  and  her  aviator?" 


[6 


Four  of  a  Kind 

Time  dragged  for  Papa  Charles.  "They 
must  have  forgotten  to  wake  them.  Devil 
take  it! — ^we  shall  come  out  of  this  with  eight 
days'  close  arrest."  Cool  as  a  cucumber, 
his  tall  figure  swinging  along  jauntily,  he 
resumed  his  stroll  on  the  platform. 

*'Hue  Lolotte!  Hue!''  M.  Bassinet,  with 
a  flourish  of  his  whip,  urged  on  Lolotte,  who 
described  an  elegant  arc  and  drew  up  at  the 
curb. 

"Here  we  are!*'  Chignole  and  Flagada 
hurtled  through  the  carriage  door. 

"Don't  forget  that  we  hit  the  hay  rather 
late,  old  man;  it  took  a  bit  of  coaxing  to  get 
us  up  this  morning,"  said  Chignole. 

"Not  to  mention  the  fact  that  the  ladies 
couldn't  let  their  Chignole  go  till  they  had 
hugged  him,  all  round.  Over  and  over,  I 
protested,  *You  will  "spoil  that  boy!'  but  it 
was  no  use  talking.     They  couldn't  part  from 

him. — ^Women,    you    understand "    M. 

Bassinet  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  gesture  of 
disillusion,  then: 

"My  aces,  don't  let  me  delay  you.     I  won't 

[7] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

say  'Good  luck' — ^that's  a  hoodoo;  but  Fll 
think  it.  You  are  off,  eh?  Get  at  their 
insides — as  far  as  it'll  go — for  you,  and  for 
the  old  jackasses  like  me  who  can't  do  it. 
And  Chignole,  my  boy,  if  ever  you  find  your- 
self strapped,  if  you  need  a  little  chink,  just 
drop  me  a  line:  'Purse  torpedoed.'  I  shall 
understand." 

Arm  in  arm,  the  three  friends  entered  the 
station.  Chignole  let  his  bag  fall  on  the  toes 
of  a  civilian,  and  the  delicate  little  joke  ap- 
pealed to  them  all  immensely. 

M.  Bassinet  watched  them  disappear: 
"Poor  lads  1  Brave  lads  1 "  With  his  coat  cuff 
he  tried  to  wipe  away  the  tears  that  would 
come. 


Plessis-Belleville.  They  leave  the  station, 
turn  their  backs  on  the  village,  and  follow 
the  long  road  leading  to  the  offices  of  the 
Reserve  Generate  d"^ Aviation  (R,  G.  A.) 

"  It's  agreed,  Flagada  ?  We  don't  separate  ^ 
I  was  to  pass  on  to  a  Spad  with  Chignole, 
[8] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

but  I  shall  ask  to  stay  on  the  Voisin,  Really, 
you  know,  I  do  like  my  old  cuckoo — ^we 
shall  probably  get  our  chance  at  night- 
flying." 

Flagada  stammered  his  thanks,  but  Papa 
Charles  cut  him  short. 

"You*d  better  let  me  pull  that  ofFwith  the 
Commandant.  The  stunt  will  be  to  make 
sure  of  the  deHvery  of  the  busses,  and  get 
to  the  front  before  evening." 

"Right-o!" 

**And,  I  say,  Flagada!  don't  load  up  here 
with  an  observer.  We'll  try  to  find  one  in 
the  squadron  who'll  fit  in  with  us." 

**  Somebody  who  can  see  a  joke — ^what? 
I  didn't  go  to  war  to  be  bored." 

Rotary  motors  were  detonating;  stationary 
engines  purring;  the  air  reeked  with  the  smell 
of  burning  oil;  motor-cycHsts,  dispatch- 
bearers,  raced  toward  the  hangars;  mechanics 
worked  at  the  planes  with  the  apparent  care- 
lessness which  characterizes  sustained  ac- 
tivity. Near  the  shed,  where  the  anemo- 
meters and  weather-gauges  were  set  up,  a 
[9] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

group  of  pilots  discussed  the  latest  news  by 
telephone  from  the  meteorological  stations. 

After  breakfast  Papa  Charles  and  Flagada 
submitted  themselves  to  the  many  formalities 
of  the  organization.  Chignole  scrutinized 
the  machines,  detecting  every  possible  flaw. 
He  bound  the  piano  wires  near  the  propeller 
with  twisted  thread,  so  that  if  they  snapped 
they  should  not  get  within  the  swing  of  its 
orbit  and  cause  an  accident.  He  regulated 
the  indicators  along  the  rim  and  set  in  the 
cockpit  a  box  containing  thirteen  grains  of 
salt — ^the  mascot  that  never  fails. 

They're  off!  The  engines  revolve;  Papa 
Charles,  his  hand  on  the  gas  throttle,  listens 
carefully,  then  switches  off.  The  purr  of 
Flagada's  machine  sounds  normal. 

"Ready?" 

''Well!" 

Papa  Charles  signs  to  the  mechanics  to 
remove  the  blocks. 

"One  minute,"  cries  Chignole,  "there's 
the  Commandant." 

They  wait  for  him,  and  he  comes  running : 

[lOl 


Four  of  a  Kind 

*'If  you  have  to  land  en  route,  look  out  for 
jarring  on  bare  ground.  Two  of  your  com- 
rades were  killed  between  Vauchamps  and 
Champaubert.  Careful,  eh?  Cut  out  the 
drinks." 

"That's  what  we're  here  for.  Sir." 


Two  hundred  metres.  On  the  right,  Paris, 
in  a  veil  of  tawny  clouds.  On  the  left, 
Ermenonville,  the  Isle  of  Poplars,  the  empty 
tomb  of  Jean-Jacques,  and  the  willows  that 
bewitched  Corot.  Farther  off,  Nanteuil, 
Villers-Cotterets,  Soissons — ^the  Boches. 

"Flagada  isn't  half  bad,"  said  Chignole 
complacently,  pointing  to  their  friend  who 
flew  in  their  wake. 

Meaux;  they  are  following  the  Petit  Morin. 
Papa  Charles  studies  the  route  carefully. 

"There  it  is." 

"What?" 

"Where  they  came  a  cropper." 

In  a  meadow  at  the  edge  of  the  stream  a 
shattered  aeroplane  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
[II] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"Wheels  in  air;  a  regular  somersault! 
Engine  topsy-turvy.  They  must  have  been 
green  hands,  those  fellows.'' 

The  biplanes  descended  in  a  spiral  to  salute 
the  dead  bird,  then  rose  again  and  flew  for 
Vertus  and  Bar-le-Duc,  where  they  were  to 
learn  their  ultimate  destination.  Contrary 
to  habit,  Chignole  and  Papa  Charles  were 
silent.  Their  flight  absorbed  them,  possessed 
them.  As  sailors  feel  the  lure  of  the  sea 
when  they  hear  the  booming  of  the  great 
deep  in  the  shrouds,  at  the  crossing  of  the 
bar,  so  these  two,  once  again  free  in  space, 
were  seized  with  passionate  desire  to  ride  the 
air.  They  longed  to  mount  up  forever, 
always  higher,  toward  the  light,  in  the  en- 
thralling dash  of  the  machine. 

II.      FLAGADA   REVEALS  HIMSELF 

"Oh,  yes;  we  all  know!  You  are  aces  and 
we  are  two-spots.  Nobody  denies  it.  But 
when  it  comes  to  night-flying — we're  always 
at  your  service,  Messieurs  les  Chasseurs  !" 

Although  he  had  been  in  Bar-le-Duc  hardly 

[12] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

more  than  fifteen  minutes,  Chignole  had 
already  contrived  to  stir  up  a  dispute  about 
the  respective  merits  of  battle  planes  and 
bombing  planes.  At  the  pilots'  mess,  before 
a  noisy  but  sympathetic  audience,  he  sang 
the  praises  of  the  biplane  with  the  wide  wing- 
span. 

"I  know;  I  know;  you  fly  zebras  and  we, 
elephants.  Just  the  same.  Papa  Charles 
and  I  are  still  willing  to  do  our  climbing 
in  the  old  family  'bus.  You  saw?  Papa 
Charles  was  a  trifle  close  for  landing;  he  cut 
oflF  the  juice,  but  the  mill  wouldn't  stop.  If 
we'd  been  on  one  of  your  planes  that  go 
slashing  through  the  air  like  a  razor,  we  should 
have  been  sHced  off  like  a  head  of  lettuce; 
while  on  ours  we  stood  the  shock  as  easily 
as  a  bird!" 

"Pour  him  out  a  drink.  Then  he'll  give 
you  a  rest  from  his  airy  romancing." 

Enter  Papa  Charles  with  Flagada:  "I 
have  the  orders.     We  rendezvous  at  Nancy, 


to-morrow." 


"Our  old  crowd?" 

[13I 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"Perhaps;  we  shall  see.  We  should  worry. 
This  evening  a  squadron  of  Farmans  is  to 
bomb  behind  the  front  at  Verdun.  The 
Commandant  has  asked  us  to  join,  as  it  is 
not  complete." 

**And  you  accepted  with  enthusiasm." 

"Apparently." 

"Then,  I  pause  in  my  discourse." 

"I  was  about  to  suggest  it." 


A  row  of  pale  acetylene  lamps  marked  the 
starting  line.  The  two  biplanes  were  side  by 
side,  their  engines  at  low  speed.  Flagada 
and  Papa  Charles,  smoking  a  last  cigarette, 
placidly  studied  their  maps.  Chignole  flitted 
nervously  from  one  to  the  other. 

"I  don't  think  it  prudent  for  Flagada  to 
fly  alone." 

"I  would  rather  be  alone  than  with  an 
observer  whom  I  don't  know." 

"But  how  about  the  bombs?" 

"The  mechanics  have  placed  a  release  close 
to  my  hand." 

[14] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

"Just  the  same,  remember  what  I  say — I 
know  a  Httle  something  about  night  attacks; 
IVe  been  there  before,  young  fellah;  you 
haven't."  And  Chignole  swelled  his  chest 
and  eyed  his  comrade  with  a  fatherly  air. 

"The  Farmans  don't  take  any  chances." 

"Hop  on,  Chignole!"  and  to  Flagada  Papa 
Charles  shouted:  "I  shall  show  a  Hght  from 
time  to  time.     Try  to  follow  us." 

"Zou!" 

With  the  noise  of  their  motors  enhanced 
tenfold  by  the  stillness  of  the  night,  the  two 
machines  leaped  toward  the  huge,  overgrown, 
yellow  moon  that  seemed  to  smother  out  the 
stars  scattered  over  the  sky. 

"Clear  weather;  luck's  with  us!" 

"I'd  prefer  a  few  clouds.  They're  going 
to  wing  us,  over  the  lines;  and  we're  not  so 
very  far  away  from  them."  Papa  Charles 
pointed  out  to  his  companion  the  bluish 
flashes  from  the  firing  of  the  big  guns. 

"Do  you  see  the  Farmans?" 

"No;  but  they  ought  to  be  caught  in  the 
searchlights  by  now." 

[IS] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Before  them  the  spindles  of  light  wavered, 
crossed,  pursued  their  fleet  prey  and  tried  to 
clutch  it. 

"Those  searchlights  are  on  autos;  they're 
feeble  things;  we  should  worry!" 

But  suddenly  a  beam  whose  brilliancy 
echpsed  the  others  ran  up  the  sky.  It  turned, 
hesitated,  lost  its  way,  then  discovered  their 
machine  and  held  it. 

*'Now's  the  time  to  show  them  we're  not 
rookies!" 

"Take  your  place  for  the  tango!" 

Papa  Charles  pulled  the  joy-stick;  the 
aeroplane  nosed  up,  leaped,  took  a  tail-dive 
of  several  hundred  metres.  But  the  ray 
of  light  held  on.  CHnging  to  his  course  like 
an  old  sea-dog  to  the  rudder.  Papa  Charles 
repeated  the  same  manoeuvre  with  varia- 
tions. He  would  run  down  in  daring  glis- 
sades, then  turn  abruptly  and  dart  up  again. 
And  always  the  white  ray  caught  them 
again  and  bhnded  them.  The  anti-aircraft 
guns  began  to  volley  fiercely;  their  aim 
was  getting  dangerously  accurate;  the  fliers 
[i6] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

could  already  feel  the   shock  of  exploding 
shells. 

"What's  got  into  them,  anyhow?"  growled 
Chignole,  his  face  buried  in  his  arms. 

"They  think  theyVe  got  us,  that's  what! 
I  can't  see  any  more." 

Behind  them  Flagada,  helpless,  looked  on 
at  this  duel  between  the  dizzy  moth  and  the 
devouring  light.  With  eyes  bursting  in  his 
head,  he  turned,  swayed,  climbed,  fell  back 
again  into  the  entangling  net  of  implacable 
light  that  was  driving  him  to  destruction. 

"What  to  do!— What  to  do!" 

The  horror  of  the  situation  stupefied  him. 
He  looked  down,  despairing,  on  the  bright 
spot  from  which  the  deadly  rays  diverged. 
Then,  suddenly,  an  idea  flashed  into  his  head. 
"Yes;  at  least  I  can  try  it."  With  the  bold- 
ness of  desperation  he  cut  off  the  gas  and 
dived  at  the  searchlight.  With  every  light 
out  and  engine  stopped,  he  slid  invisible  and 
silent,  till,  at  a  low  altitude,  he  poised  above 
the  projector  and  at  one  stroke  released  the 
bombs. 

[17] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Broum!  Broum!  Nothing  more.  Dark- 
ness. 

"  Flagada !  I  guess  IVe  put  them  to  sleep — 
What  ? "  And  he  turned  on  the  wing,  gained 
the  landing  place  and  awaited  the  return  of 
his  friends. 

They  were  not  long  in  coming.  Chignole, 
greatly  excited,  fell  upon  him:  "Heh,  old 
boy!  We've  had  the  most  fantastic  adven- 
ture— you  could  never  imagine.  We  were 
caught  by  a  searchli " 

But  Flagada  interrupted  him:  "No,  no; 
let  me  off  this  time.  You  always  have  some 
tall  yarn " 

"You  mean  to  say  you  didn't  see  us?  A 
searchlight  caught  us,  drowned  us;  then — 
all  of  a  sudden — it  went  out.  You  saw 
nothing? — Papa  Charles  will  bear  me  out." 

"No;  nothing.  Sweet  evening  for  a  debu- 
tant— ^what?"  And  Flagada,  walking  at  a 
tranquil  pace  toward  the  billets,  rejoiced 
that  his  friends  did  not  know  they  owed  their 
lives  to  him. 

4:  >i:  4:  »:>  H:  9H  * 

[i8] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

"Put  up  the  busses.  Run  a  flashlight  over 
the  engines.  Ease  up  my  rudder.  Fill  her 
up  for  ten  o'clock.'* 

The  mechanics  obeyed,  and  their  dusky 
silhouettes  stood  out,  huge,  against  the  ma- 
chines shining  white  under  the  moon.  Papa 
Charles,  seated  on  a  can  of  petrol,  was  peeling 
off  his  leather  suit.  Chignole,  in  a  brown 
study,  scratched  himself  behind  his  ear, 
rubbed  his  nose — always  signs  of  deep  per- 
plexity with  him. 

"Do  we  go  bye-low?" 

"What's  struck  you,  you  dumb  old  oyster? 
— have  you  swallowed  the  cuckoo's  joy- 
stick?" 

"The  matter  with  me,  Papa  Charles,  is 
that  I  don't  like  mysteries;  and  we  are  swim- 
ming up  to  our  eyes  in  a  mystery." 

"I  don't  get  you." 

"You  don't?  Then  I  suppose  you  find  it 
quite  natural  that  the  searchhght  should 
suddenly  let  us  go,  at  the  very  moment  when 
it  had  us  at  its  mercy?" 

"Oh,  well,  something  happened,  of  course; 
[19] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

but  I'm  not  going  to  make  myself  sick  hunt- 
ing for  the  wherefore  of  the  why.  Let's  go 
to  bed,  that's  what  we  need." 

Night!  the  Umitless  plain  mingling  with  the 
sky;  a  convoy  cUmbing  the  sunken  road  that 
runs  along  the  plateau;  axle-trees  groaning, 
wheels  creaking,  horses  neighing,  men  swear- 
ing. The  hangars  thrust  their  massive, 
regular  profiles  into  the  gray  picture,  their 
silvered  roofs  billowing  in  the  wind.  A  few 
lights  mark  the  village  of  Behone;  a  ray  of 
moonlight  twinkles  on  the  weather-cock 
on  its  clock-tower.  The  big  gun  keeps  up 
its  steady  hammering  in  the  giant  forge  that 
flushes  red  on  the  horizon. 

"Yesterday,  Httle  old  Paris;  day  before 
yesterday,  back  from  Nice,"  murmured 
Chignole.  "To-day,  apprenticed  to  death. 
I'm  not  grousing;  far  from  it.  Still,  I  will 
confess,  I  was  afraid  to  come  back  to  the 
front.  Yes;  afraid  of  being  afraid.  I  got 
rusty  in  hospital  and  then  I  had  a  taste  of  a 
lot  of  amazing  things  I'd  never  known  before, 
and  it  bored  me  to  think  of  leaving  all  that. 

[20] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

What  can  you  expect!  Vm  no  hero;  IVe 
never  had  the  training  and  education  that 
give  a  man  the  nerve  to  react  properly  to 
such  experiences.  It's  not  hard  for  you  two 
fellows  to  be  courageous.  Often  I've  watched 
you,  Papa  Charles;  more  than  once,  during 
a  raid,  it  almost  got  your  goat.  But  you  were 
not  alone:  Chignole  was  behind  you  with  his 
eye  peeled,  and  you  pulled  yourself  together 
and  posed — for  the  public  1 

"The  first  time  a  fellow  leaves  home,  he 
doesn't  mind;  he's  curious  Hke  everybody 
else,  he  wants  to  see  what  war's  Hke.  Then 
he's  wounded,  and  sent  back  to  the  rear; 
he  stops  there  a  bit,  and  then's  the  time,  old 
boy,  when  you  suck  the  juice  out  of  life  and 
try  all  the  fool  things  it  has  to  offer.  Me! 
I  actually  wept  the  first  time  I  rode  again 
in  the  Metro, — and  when  I  saw  the  waffle- 
woman  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Coustou. 
Then,  when  you're  sitting  calmly  at  a  little 
table  on  the  Boulevard,  with  a  glass  of  some- 
thing cool  in  front  of  you,  you  find  yourself 
thinking:    *  To-morrow    I    chuck    all   this.' 

[21  1 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Well,  old  man,  believe  me,  you  feel  as  if 
your  trousers  were  ripping  up  the  back;  and 
you're  not  happy  about  the  way  you'll 
break  into  the  game  when  you  get  back  to 
the  front." 

Papa  Charles  turned  round,  took  Chignole 
by  the  shoulders,  studied  him,  tried  to  read 
his  eyes,  and  exclaimed  in  a  hoarse,  troubled 
voice:  ''Yes;  it's  true,  Chignole;  it's  all 
true.  But  now  that  you're  back — how  do 
you  feel?" 

**Ah,  good  old  top! — it's  better  than  it 
ever  was.  What  a  fool  I  was  to  dread  it! 
How  could  I  be  such  an  idiot!  Scare's  all 
gone!  Like  a  miracle!  The  instant  I  was 
in  the  'bus — finished  and  done  with ! — every- 
thing else  forgotten.  It  seemed  to  me  I  had 
always  been  a  soldier,  and  would  go  on  being 
one  forever.  The  memory  of  the  happy 
hours  back  there — pjtt  I — gone!  as  at  a  wave 
of  the  wizard's  wand;  'Vanish,  little  rab- 
bit!'— Mama,  Sophie;  perhaps  it's  silly,  but 
they  hold  only  the  second  place  in  my 
thoughts — behind    something    I    can't    ex- 

[22] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

plain,  something  that  overshadows  all  the 
rest — don't  you  know! — ^At  midday,  in  full 
sunshine,  what  do  you  see?  The  sun! — 
nothing  else.  Well!  just  like  that,  my  past 
dissolves,  disappears,  like  the  houses,  the 
trees,  the  whole  earth,  under  a  dazzling  Hght. 
Tell  me  what's  the  matter  with  me,  Papa 
Charles." 

"I  know;  but  there  aren't  any  words  for  it: 
La  Patrie — France — ^the  holy  War " 

"Yes;  I  believe  that  we've  had  the  luck 
to  be  born  at  the  supreme  moment,  to  accom- 
plish great  things." 

They  are  silent,  oppressed  by  an  indefina- 
ble emotion.  The  wind  dried  the  beads  of 
sweat  on  their  temples;  the  wind,  that  brings 
sick  vapours  from  the  furnaces  of  the  battle- 
field, acrid  odours  of  exploded  shells  and  the 
stench  of  rotting 'flesh.  Side  by  side  they  lis- 
tened, deeply  moved,  to  the  voice  of  the  great 
gun,  now  dull  and  distant,  calling,  calling 
them,  as  if  it  were  the  wounded  earth  that 
groaned. 

♦  4e  ♦  «  *  «  * 

[23], 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

In  the  tent,  they  undressed  quickly,  for 
the  dampness  oozed  through  the  canvas. 
Flagada  was  already  sleeping  peacefully. 

"Well,  I  know  Tm  a  bore,  but  the  story 
of  the  searchlight  is  yet  to  be  explained,*' 
said  Chignole,  hitching  up  his  suspenders 
with  a  characteristic  gesture. 

"It's  certainly  extraordinary  that  Flagada 
saw  nothing." 

"Especially — come  to  think  of  it — as  he 
was  smiling  when  he  answered  our  questions; 
a  little  as  if  he  had  a  joke  on  us." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  he  smile?  There 
was  nothing  to  cry  about.  Pshaw!  We 
shall  guess  the  riddle  sooner  or  later, — more 
likely  later.     Douse  the  glim ! " 

Papa  Charles  slid  shivering  between  the 
stiff,  cold  sheets.  Chignole  went  to  the 
table  and  took  up  the  lamp. 

"What  am  I  stepping  on  ?  Oh  I — Flagada's 
flight  memorandum." 

"His  flight  book?  Pass  it  over!  Let's  see 
what  he's  put  down  about  this  evening's 
bombardment." 

[24] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

Papa  Charles  turned  the  pages  quickly, 
Chignole  leaning  over  him  with  the  light: 
"Bombardment  behind  the  front,  Verdun. 
Duration:  3  hours,  10  minutes.  Dropped  six 
bombs  on  the  Boche  searchlight  that  was 
bothering  my  pals." 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  wet  eyes; 
Flagada  snored. 

III.      THE   LIGHTNING-CHANGE  ARTIST 

**Get  up,  lazy-bones!" 

"What!  What  is  it?"  Flagada  and  Chig- 
nole, waking  with  a  jump,  stared  bewildered 
at  Papa  Charles  as  he  slipped  off  his  helmet 
and  rubber-coat  all  shiny  with  rain. 

"While  you  were  snoozing,  I  took  a  taxi 
and  sized  up  the  weather.  Clouds  at  one 
hundred  metres.    Nothing  doing." 

"Nancy  isn't  far." 

"What  if  it  isn't? — we  must  see  where 
we're  going,  just  the  same,  when  we  skirt  the 
St.  Mihiel  ridge.  As  for  flying  at  one  hun- 
dred metres;  when  I  want  to  cut  the  grass, 
I  don't  take  out  a  new  machine.     It's  all 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

very  well  to  have  dual  ignition;  I  want  to 
know  all  about  It  before  I  let  myself  in  for 
its  eccentricities." 

"So — ^we're  expected  to  get  up?" 

"It  would  seem  to  be  indicated.  It's 
almost  noon,  and  you  run  a  strong  risk  of  not 
finding  a  crumb  at  the  mess." 

"We  should  worry!  We'll  blow  ourselves 
in  for  a  tip-top  dinner  this  evening;  we'll 
pull  it  off  somehow,  but  I  can't  get  up  a 
thrill  over  it  just  this  minute,  Papa  Charles," 
yawned  Chignole,  trying  to  stretch  himself 
awake.  "Golly,  but  I  slept!  and  I  had  a 
peacherino  of  a  dream.  I  was  sprouting 
wings.  I  soared! — I  soared! — scattering  all 
the  little  busses  behind  me  as  I  flew." 

"Our  Chignole  as  a  rival  of  the  Angel 
Gabriel — fine  subject  for  a  picture.  Well, 
my  children,  I  also  dreamed."  Papa  Charles 
fixed  his  eye  on  Flagada,  but  his  voice  was 
not  quite  steady:  "A  very  queer  dream, 
I  saw  us,  yesterday  evening,  caught  in  the 
searchlight — blinded,  done  for — about  to 
crash  in  a  tail-spin.  But  a  pal  who  was 
[26] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

following  us  caught  on  to  the  situation. 
Despising  cannon  and  machine-guns,  in- 
different to  the  possible  smash,  never  stopping 
to  count  the  cost,  he  shut  off  the  engine  and 
dropped  down  over  the  searchlight.  And  he 
placed  his  bombs  so  well  that  the  horrible 
light  was  snuffed  out — and  we  are  alive. 
I  ask  you,  Chignole,  what  you  would  call  the 
fellow  who  would  do  that?'* 

Silence.  Flagada  concealing  his  embarrass- 
ment very  clumsily,  and  Chignole  much 
affected : 

"I  should  call  him  a  man  in  a  thousand! 
I  should  call  him  Flagada!'*  Then,  as  the 
latter  tried  to  protest:  ** Hypocrite!  Sly 
dog!  You  make  me  sick!  I  shan't  play 
with  you  any  more,"  and  he  leaped  out  of 
bed  to  hug  his  friend,  while  Papa  Charles, 
who  had  got  there  first,  gripped  Flagada's 
hands  affectionately,  saying: 

"We  have  known  one  another  only  two 
days,  and  already  we  owe  our  hves  to  you. 
How  can  we  ever  pay  our  debt.?" 

"By  never  mentioning  it  to  me  again — 
[271 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

it  is  agreed — never,  to  any  one."    And  Fla- 
gada  began  to  pull  on  his  socks. 


Down  the  muddy  road  they  go,  the  road 
that  leads  from  Behone  to  Bar-le-Duc. 
Chignole,  who  is  his  own  valet,  has  a  horror  of 
soiHng  his  boots,  and  avoids  the  puddles 
with  cathke  agility,  grumbling  as  he  hops: 

**This  bath-water  is  sickening.  I  never 
saw  so  much  rain.  We  sure  have  a  grouch 
against  the  Weather  Man  for  leaving  the 
sluices  open  all  the  time.  Still — it's  worse 
in  the  trenches — so  don't  let's  whine." 

An  imperative  Klaxon  warns  them  to 
get  out  of  the  way  of  a  rapidly  moving 
truck,  which  stops  when  it  comes  up  with 
them. 

*'  Will  you  come  in  ? "  cries  the  American 
chauffeur  in  English. 

''With  fleasurey'  replies  Papa  Charles  in 
the  same  language. 

"Anything  for  practice  in  the  foreign 
tongues,"  murmurs  Chignole,  hoisting  him- 

[28] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

self,  along  with  his  companions,  into  the 
car  full  of  pilots  of  the  American  Escadrille. 
There  are  introductions,  hearty  claps  on 
friendly  shoulders,  cordial  greetings.  Papa 
Charles  converses;  Flagada  and  Chignole 
offer  their  opinions  freely.  By  the  time  they 
reach  Bar-le-Duc  they  are  all  bosom  friends, 
for  Papa  Charles  has  started  the  popular 
refrain, 

"Take  me  in  your  arms  and  say  you  love  me,*' 

which  the  Americans  take  up  in  chorus;  and 
they  cannot  part  until  they  have  had  several 
drinks  all  round. 

"My,  but  Fm  hungry!  I  could  relish  a 
little  snack  of  something.'*  Chignole  clicked 
his  teeth  suggestively. 

**I  know  where  there's  a  cake  shop;  follow 
me,"  replied  Flagada. 

"You  know  these  diggings?" 

"Yes;  I  used  to  come  here — before  the 
war." 

The  cake  shop. — ^A  customer  leaning  on 
the  counter  eating  with  gusto.  Huge,  lean, 
[29] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

all  legs,  his  long  nose  sticking  out  like  a 
handle  above  his  long  neck,  he  recalls  the 
picture  of  the  heron  in  the  fable.  With 
entire  calmness,  methodically,  without  effort, 
he  engulfs  quantities  of  cakes,  expediting 
their  disappearance  with  frequent  potations 
of  sweetened  wine. 

"Have  you  any  more  frangipaneSy  dear 
Madame?"  he  asks  the  proprietress,  with  an 
agreeable  smile. 

**Only  one,  Monsieur." 

** Excellent;  that  will  make  it  come  out 
just  even.  A  dozen,  isn't  it?"  He  seizes 
the  cake,  gloats  over  it  a  moment,  and  in 
one  bite  it  is  gone. 

Chignole  has  been  staring  with  round  eyes: 
"Will  you  take  a  look  at  our  brother  over 
there!  Where  does  he  put  it  all?  Thin  as 
a  breath  of  wind!  Whew!  He  Hkes /r^w^x- 
panes — ^what?  Can  you  imagine  what  ma- 
chine he  flies  ?  Where  does  he  find  a  cockpit 
big  enough  to  stretch  his  spindle-shanks? 
Let's  get  out  of  here!  He  might  mistake 
us  for  creamcakes." 

[301 


Four  of  a  Kind 

Flagada  leads  them  through  the  labyrinth 
of  the  streets. 

"Where  are  you  taking  us?" 

"To  a  cafe — our  kind — Cafe  des  Oiseaux." 

A  huge  hall.  The  walls  are  lined  with 
showcases  in  which  are  displayed  the  stuffed 
birds  that  give  the  place  its  name. 

"He  knows  the  ropes,  our  friend.  Oh, 
Papa  Charles,  what  do  you  call  that  bird 
with  the  big  eyes?" 

"A  grand-duke." 

"I  have  my  doubts.  He  doesn't  seem 
at  his  ease.  Heh!  What's  struck  you,  Fla- 
gada?    Don't  faint,  what  1" 

"A  poster!  A  poster!"  stammers  Flagada, 
his  eyes  glued  to  an  old,  faded  programme 
that  hangs  against  a  partition. 

"What  does  it  say? — Grand  Concert — 
June  15,  1914. — ^That's  not  to-day,  unhappily, 
— One  of  those  nifty  shows — I  love  that  kind." 

Flagada  underlines  with  his  finger  a  name 
printed  on  the  programme: 

PATAQUES 
Lightning-Change  Artist 

[31] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"You  know  him — that  barn  stormer?" 
"Yes;  that's  to  say — a  Httle.  It's  me." 
He  hesitates,  then  brokenly:  **Yes;  in  civil 
life,  that's  what  I  am.  '  A  clown  at  three  francs 
a  ticket,  performing  in  the  provinces  and 
at  wedding  breakfasts.  Lightning-Change 
Artist!  A  tenth-rate  understudy  of  Max 
Dearly,*  dragging  his  painted  wretchedness 
and  his  sinister  gaiety  from  one  green  room 
to  the  next.  If  only  I  were  sure  I  had  talent. 
But  there  you  are!  Nothing  is  less  certain. 
Now  and  then,  not  often,  I  was  conscious  of 
being  bad  enough  to  hiss;  and  there  were 
times  when  the  public  confirmed  my  severe 
but  just  judgment  of  myself  ...  I  need 
only  change  my  trade. — ^Quite  true! — Only — 
there  you  are  again — I  love  the  boards. 
My  kind  of  a  fool  is  a  fool  for  life.  I'd  sooner 
be  a  prompter  or  a  property  man  than  quit 
the  stage.  You  see,  your  new  companion 
is  an  acquisition.  He's  not  commonplace — 
Lightning-Change   Artist."     He   laughed    a 


*The  reader  may  here  substitute  the  name  of  his  favourite 
music-hall  artist. 

[32] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

forced  laugh,  mournfully,  then  sat  down  to 
a  table  and  became  lost  in  thought. 

Enter  a  motorcyclist  and  runs  to  Papa 
Charles:  **The  Chief  of  the  Centre  gave  me 
this  for  you.  A  dispatch  from  G.  H.  Q. 
The  reply  to  the  request  he  telegraphed  this 
morning,  following  your  report." 

**Sshh!"  Papa  Charles  went  up  to  the 
poster  and  pinned  the  open  dispatch  on  it. 
"Flagada;  look  here,  old  man." 

Under  the  name  "  Pataques,"  on  the  yellow 

page  of  the  official  telegram,  they  read : 

• 

Is  cited  in  the  order  of  the  day: 

X ,  pilot  in  the  escadrille,  V.B. — Under  particu- 
larly dangerous  circumstances,  exposed  himself  of  his 
own  accord  to  save  two  of  his  companions  who  were 
about  to  succumb.  Succeeded  fully,  thanks  to  his 
courage  and  coolness. 

Flagada  trembled  and  tried  to  speak,  but 
emotion  choked  him.  Chignole,  to  save  the 
situation,  babbled: 

*' Since  you  love  the  theatre,  behold,  you 
have  your  reward!" 

l33] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

'IV.       AN    AVIATIK    RAID 

The  three  friends  were  seated  in  one  of  the 
restaurants  of  Bar-le-Duc,  where  they  had 
finally  secured  a  table  after  interminable 
altercations  in  the  course  of  which  promises 
alternated  with  threats. 

"Oh,  very  well!  believe  it  or  not,  as  you 
please, — the  theatre  has  no  more  thrills  for 
me."  Chignole,  in  difficulties  with  a  bone, 
from  which  he  could  not  suck  the  marrow, 
paused  a  moment,  then  continued :  **  The  thea- 
tre?— it's  nothing  but  lies;  that's  what  disil- 
lusioned me.  Still,  when  I  was  a  kid,  I  adored 
it.  But  something  happened  that  gave  me 
cold  feet.     If  you  like,  Fll  tell  you  in  five  sees." 

''Anecdote!"  smiled  Papa  Charles. 

"Don't  be  too  spiteful  before  a  poor  tyro; 
remember  that  I'm  here,"  Flagada  murmured 
apprehensively. 

"Well,  here  goes!    I  was  somewhere  about 

fourteen  and  I  was  working  at  the  upper  end 

of  the  Rue  de  Belleville,  in  the  Rue  des 

Envierges.     Naturally,  I  used  to  go  to  the  old 

[34I 


Four  of  a  Kind 

theatre  of  the  neighbourhood,  whose  posters 
advertised  the  shadiest  melodramas  in  letters 
of  blood.  And  what  Fate  decreed,  befell 
swiftly." 

"You  fell  in  love  with  a  star." 

"It  was  my  first  offense.  Yes;  I  became 
infatuated  with  the  ingenue.  Ah,  my  dear 
fellows;  marvellous! — but  she  was  marvellous! 
One  of  those  blondes- '* 

"Our  Chignole  already  had  a  taste  for 
blondes!" 

"And  then,  as  for  talent — extraordinary! 
As  Fanfan  in  *The  Two  Kids,'  she  moved  the 
whole  house  to  tears,  and  Limace  received 
every  variety  of  abuse  and  vegetables. 
After  having  brooded  long  in  my  heart  over 
this  grand  passion,  I  decided  to  unveil  to 
her  my  secret  soul." 

"In  the  words  of  Lagardere " 

"Don't  interrupt.  I  wrote  her  a  letter 
carefully  phrased.  I  might  as  well  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it.     I  finished  it  this  way: 

You  will  easily  recognize  the  admirer  who  will  have 
the  honour  to  present  to  you  his  distinguished  saluta- 

l3S] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

tions  at  the  end  of  the  performance.  During  your 
great  love  scene  of  the  eleventh  act,  he  will  put  his 
legs  over  the  edge  of  the  proscenium  rail. 

"Irresistible  attitude!*' 

"At  midnight,  very  much  excited,  quite 
upset  and  almost  ready  to  throw  a  fit,  I 
turned  my  steps  toward  the  green  room  door, 
which  I  had  so  often  eyed  with  longing. 
Issued  forth:  the  young  hero,  a  regular 
masher;  the  villain,  sinister;  the  heavy  father, 
venerable;  the  duenna,  sweet  as  sugar;  the 
financier,  all  importance;  the  soubrette, 
amiable;  the  machinists,  noisy;  and  the 
prompter,  negligible.  Finally,  there  appeared 
a  woman;  the  smoky  argand  lamp  over  the 
entrance  lighted  up  her  features  only  too 
well.  I  recognized  my  ingenue,  but  without 
wig,  without  make-up,  unadorned,  showing 
all  her  years.  Oh,  imagine  the  disaster! 
She  might  have  been  her  mother — at  the 
very  least.  I  left,  disgusted;  and  I  have 
always  held  a  grudge  against  the  theatre  for 
destroying  my  first  illusion." 

They  sat  silent,  each  one  haunted  by  the 
[36] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

ghost  of  his  vanished  youth.  It  touched 
them  Hghtly,  wrapped  them  round,  caressed 
them,  then  vanished  Hke  smoke.  But  even 
when  it  had  vanished,  they  felt  it  still,  for 
it  had  left  its  perfume. 

Papa  Charles  was  the  first  to  shake  off  the 
spell. 

"The  bill;  let's  get  a  move  on.  We  must 
be  in  bed  early;  the  barometer  is  still  going  up. 
There's  more  than  a  chance  that  to-morrow 
morning  the  sky'll  be  clear;  and  in  that  case 
we'll  breakfast  at  Nancy." 

Just  as  they  were  leaving  the  hotel,  one 
of  their  neighbours  at  table  said  to  them: 
"You're  going  back  to  Behone  1  Look  out  for 
aviatiks." 

"Aviatiks?" 

"They're  out  almost  every  evening.  Look 
sharp!    They've  no  sense  of  humour." 

Flagada,  astonished,  was  about  to  ask  for 
further  details,  when  Chignole  murmured  in 
his  ear:  "Keep  your  shirt  on.  He's  a  little 
fresh,  that  fellow.  Aviatiks!  To-night! 
What  a  crazy  idea!" 

l37l 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

They  went  down  the  Avenue  de  la  Gare 
at  a  brisk  step.     The  night  was  clear, 

"You  see!  I  was  right.  The  weather  is 
fine;  no  clouds;  a  splendid  night." 

**The  moonlight  flows  down  the  steep  blue 
roofs,"  chanted  Flagada. 

**Halt!"  cried  Chignole  suddenly. 

"What^sgotyou?" 

**Down  there  in  the  square,  a  patrol; 
mihtary  caps,  white  bands;  police." 

'^Whatofit?" 

"You  know  very  well  we  have  no  business 
in  the  streets  at  this  hour." 

"Let's  go  back  the  way  we  came.  We 
can  go  single  file  by  the  station.  Hide  be- 
hind a  tree;  I  believe  we  can  work  it." 

"It  would  mean  fifteeen  days'  arrest,  if 
those  little  chaps  caught  us.  And  the 
Provost  Marshal  will  make  it  thirty  days, 
and  the  mihtary  governor  will  raise  it  to 
sixty;  that's  the  tariff." 

The  two  patrols,  approaching  each  other, 
were  about  to  bag  their  helpless  victims, 
when  an  automobile  came  down  a  cross  street 

[38] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

toward  them  at  a  smart  pace.  Papa  Charles 
leaped  to  meet  it,  waving  his  cap  desperately: 

"Aviation!"  he  roared. 

The  car  stopped:  "Comrade!'*  cried  the 
chauffeur. 

A  pleasant  voice  issued  from  the  lowered 
carriage-hood:  "Be  so  kind  as  to  get  in, 
gentlemen." 

The  patrols  came  on  at  double-quick: 
"Stop!    Stop!" 

But  the  chauffeur,  by  a  clever  turn,  escaped 
the  mounted  police,  and  the  motor  lost  itself 
in  the  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets. 

The  excitement  over,  the  three  companions 
turned  as  one  man  to  the  unknown  who  had 
pulled  them  out  of  this  scrape,  but  they  could 
not  make  him  out  under  the  closed  top. 

"Thank  your  lucky  stars — ^not  me.  Fve 
just  come  back  from  escorting  an  officer 
of  the  flying  squadron,  one  of  my  friends, 
and  Fm  fortunate  to  have  arrived  at  the 
psychological  moment.  A  little  more,  and 
undoubtedly  you'd  have  been  taken  prisoners 
by  the  aviatiks." 

[39] 


Birds  oj  a  Feather 

"What's  that  you  say?" 

''Yes;  that's  our  nickname  here  for  the 
police,  because  of  their  frequent  raids.  We 
are  often  the  victims,  for  your  true  policeman 
is  without  pity.  It's  an  innocent  title  that 
hurts  no  one. — But  pardon  me,  I  had  for- 
gotten that  I  am  not  yet  presented."  He 
scratched  a  match,  lifted  his  cap,  and  in  the 
''grand  manner,"  announced  himself: 

"Vicomte  Jean-Leon  de  la  Gueryniere." 

"Oh,  the  guy  of  the  cake-shop,  who  ate 
creamcakes  by  the  dozen!  Well,  friend  Vi- 
comte,  you  sure  have  a  stomach!"  cried 
Chignole,  tapping  him  on  the  belly.  And 
when  Papa  Charles  voiced  their  gratitude, 
their  new  friend  protested : 

"What  sort  of  a  cad  should  I  have  been  to 
act  otherwise  ?  In  aviation  we  must  stand  by 
— the  wings!     We  have  to  be  good  sports." 

"You're  an  observer,  aren't  you?"  in- 
quired Flagada. 

"  Yes ;  I'm  here  at  the  annex  of  the  R.  G.  A., 
on  the  look-out  for  a  good  pilot.  Up  to 
now  I've  had  only  make-believes,  nuts  who 

[40] 


Four  of  a  Kind 

landed  on  their  front  wheels.  You  can 
understand,  I  am  quite  willing  to  be  scattered 
to  the  four  winds  by  the  Germans,  but  by  a 
pal — it's  not  a  pleasant  thought." 

"Well,  Vicomte,  I  am  looking  for  an  ob- 
server.— My  references? — Two  hundred  and 
seventeen  hours  of  flight,  and  yesterday 
evening  an  escapade  of  which  these  gentlemen 
have  a  rather  exaggerated  idea.  Will  you 
make  a  fourth  at  whist?  Will  you  change 
our  three-handed  game  into  a  farti  carre — 
of  aces?" 

The  Vicomte  scratched  another  match 
and  studied  the  faces  of  the  trio:  "Fm  your 
man.     It's  a  go!" 

"There's  just  one  hitch,"  began  Chignole. 
"Each  one  of  us  has  a  fighting  name.  We 
must  baptize  the  Vicomte. — I  have  it!  We'll 
call  you  Frangipane! — You  don't  mind?" 

."Hurrah  for  Frangipane!" 

"And  the  Boches  had  better  look  out — 
the  real  ones,  not  the  aviatiks.'* 

Four  pairs  of  hands  clasped, 

itH  ^  ^  ^  Tf^  HH  HH 

[41] 


Birds  of  a  Feather ' 

"Red — It's  rather  giddy " 

**  Don't  you  think  gray  would  be  more 
serviceable?" 

"Well — how  about  tricolour?" 

"Tricolour — there's  no  need  to  proclaim 
It — we  wear  it  on  our  hearts,  Ma'me  Bassi- 
net," her  husband  interposed  sententiously 
as  he  knocked  his  pipe  lightly  on  his  sole  to 
expel  the  ashes. 

Seated  about  the  lamp,  the  three  women 
were  choosing  worsteds  to  make  a  muffler. 

"Daisy  stitch  or  Tunisian?" 

"Chatterboxes!  Here  it's  taken  you  an 
hour  of  talk  to  come  to  an  agreement.  Our 
Chignole's  knitting  might  have  been  half 
finished  by  now." 

"Pull  the  latch,  Monsieur  Bassinet,  don't 
you  hear  the  bell?  Ten  o'clock.  It's  old 
Fondu." 

A  slim  silhouette  is  framed  in  the  square 
panes  of  the  lodge  door.  There  is  a  timid 
knock. 

"Come  in,  Fondu,  come  in,  old  boy." 

M.  Fondu,  in  the  employ  of  the  City  of 
[42I 


Four  of  a  Kind 

Paris  (Sewerage  Department),  replies  to  the 
invitation  and  creeps  over  to  the  stove.  He 
is  a  slender  little  man,  grotesque,  of  no  par- 
ticular age.  He  floats  about  in  a  great  coat 
of  antique  pattern  which  sweeps  his  heels. 
On  his  sharp  knees  he  balances  a  stove-pipe 
hat,  which,  at  the  time  of  mobilization,  made 
him  the  butt  of  the  hoodlums  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. He  gazes  complacently  at  his 
Httle  finger-nail  which  he  keeps  very  long. 
He  coughs,  and  murmurs:  "And  our  aces? 
— ^Any  news?" 

**Not  yet.  They  left  only  yesterday  morn- 
ing. Besides,  I  have  an  idea  they  were  going 
to  stop  oflF,  en  route,  for  a  little  spree.  They've 
a  jolly  good  right  to  it.  The  poor  devils  at 
the  front  must  have  their  fun.  They  ought 
not  to  have  anything  to  regret,  if  they  should 
never  come  back — eh,  Fondu?" 

The  old  gentleman  clucks,  opens  his 
mouth  three  times  to  speak,  clucks  again,  and 
is  silent.  Sophie's  nimble  crochet  needle 
races  along  the  stitches;  Madame  Bassinet 
and  "Mama  Chignole,"  wind  off  a  skein; 

(43] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

M.  Bassinet  sucks  his  pipe;  M.  Fondu  con- 
templates his  feet.  Little  by  little  a  strange 
purring  invades  the  silence. 

"Airplanes!" 

With  one  bound  they  are  at  the  window. 
Overhead,  there  are  stars  that  leave  their 
places  in  the  sky  and  stray  among  the  con- 
stellations. 

"The  airplanes  of  the  fortifications." 

The  women,  touched  to  silence  by  a  com- 
mon thought,  draw  close  together,  fearfully. 
The  men  shake  their  heads,  subdued  by  the 
sense  of  their  unimportance. 

"Ah,  Fondu!  We  are  nothing  but  useless 
old  fools." 


[44] 


II 

THE  CLIMBERS 

I.      THE  TAB  GET 

NO  use  talking,"  grinned  Chignole, 
"our  Papa  Charles  is  a  regular  as- 
trologer. He's  like  Nostradamus; 
he  always  gets  there.  He  has  only  to  proph- 
esy fine  weather  to  bring  on  a  flood!" 

The  canvas  of  the  tent  resounded  with  the 
rain. 

"It's  not  yet  to-morrow,  and  you'd  much 
better  go  to  sleep,  for  if  you  don't  get  up 
instantly  in  the  morning,  I  shall  pitch  a 
glass  of  water  in  your  face." 

"  You  won't  need  to.  Papa  Charles.  That's 
already  being  attended  to."  The  rain  was 
running  through  the  canvas  and  dripping  on 
Chignole's  bed. 

[45] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"Flagada!  Fm  taking  a  footbath,"  cried 
the  Lightning-Change  Artist,  sitting  up. 

*'Glory!     But  this  place  is  an  aquarium/' 

It  was  raining  on  Frangipane's  bed  also, 
falling  on  his  face;  and  he,  fast  asleep, 
was  batting  at  it  automatically,  as  if  it 
were  a  fly.  All  of  a  sudden,  he  awoke 
with  a  snort,  and  the  four  began  to  consult 
together. 

"Not  very  thrilling  to  spend  the  night 
moving  beds." 

"Let  Flagada  give  us  his  repertoire." 

"Without  music .f*  There  would  be  no 
point." 

"Do  any  of  you  gentlemen  know  Venice!" 
suggested  Frangipane.  "For  I  should  be 
delighted  to  reminisce  with  him.  Ah,  the 
Lido!  the  Lido!" 

"Stow  the  Lido,  Vicomte,  you're  talking 
to  beggars.  But  it  occurs  to  me,  since  we're 
four,  now's  the  time  for  a  first-rate  game 
of  bridge." 

They  dressed  quickly.  An  upturned  box 
served  for  a  table;  the  beds  were  soft  chairs; 
[46] 


Tfie  cumbers 

a,  candle  stuck  awry  in  a  bottle  shed  a  feeble 
light  and  wept  tears  of  wax. 

"A  heart,"  Flagada  declared  prudently. 

"No  bid,**  said  Papa  Charles,  shutting  up 
his  hand  with  a  snap. 

"No  trump,'*  announced  Flagada,  peremp- 
torily. 

"Come  back.  Here  goes,  my  lad!"  cried 
Chignole,  ever  ready  for  any  risk. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

They  arrived  safely  at  Nancy  the  next 
morning.  The  journey  was  devoid  of  inci- 
dent, except  for  Papa  Charles  and  Chignole, 
who  were  bound  to  fly  over  the  Roman  Camp, 
to  find  out  whether  the  Boches  had  all  the 
ammunition  they  needed. 

At  the  headquarters  of  the  squadron  they 
were  assigned  to  an  escadrille  and  set  out 
promptly  to  report  for  duty.  Crossing  the 
plateau,  they  met  several  old  friends. 

"So  you're  going  to  keep  on  in  the  Voisin  ? 
Night-flying's  a  soft  snap.     Have  you  heard } 

L ,  the  little  live  wire? — Went  to  pieces 

yesterday.  It  was  partly  his  fault;  he  had 
[47] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

only  two  days  on  a  Spad  and  he  wanted  to 
show  off,  to  astonish  the  officers.  He  went 
up  zoumt' — the  engine  gave  out — down  he 
came  on  one  wing.  Ah,  my  children! — 
They  mopped  him  up  with  blotting  paper!" 
Then,  jumping  without  transition  to  another 
subject:  "The  cake-shop  in  the  Rue  des 
Dominicains,  where  we  ate  such  good  cream 
tarts,  is  closed — or,  rather,  opened — cut  in 
two  by  a  380." 

"Just  my  luck,"  murmured  Frangipane. 

After  breakfast,  when  they  were  taking  a 
constitutional  in  the  pine  wood,  they  ex- 
changed impressions  of  the  escadrille. 

"Of  course,  it's  very  flattering  to  tumble 
into  a  squad  of  aces,  but  it's  rather  embarrass- 
ing." 

"With  all  these  Legions  of  Honour,  we 
look  like  thirty  cents." 

"We  really  must  pull  off  something  clever." 

Chignole  slashed  with  his  cane  at  all  the 
Httle  weeds  within  his  reach,  pulled  his  nose 
reflectively,  then  paused:  "I  have  an  idea, 
but  it's  not  to  the  point." 

[48] 


The  Climbers 

"Out  with  it.     Let's  see  if  it's  any  good." 

"You  may  have  noticed  at  table  that  the 
conversation  has  turned  on  a  very  dangerous 
anti-aircraft  battery  of  the  Boches,  which 
brought  down  several " 

"Exordium Yes?" 

"That's  all.  If  we  could  demolish  it  our 
reputation  would  be  made — what?" 

"So  that's  your  great  idea? — Congratula- 
tions! It  didn't  hurt  you  much!  Our  squad 
hasn't  been  waiting  round  for  Chignole  and 
Company  to  show  them  how  to  destroy  a 
battery.  They've  got  no  results  from  bomb- 
ing it;  why  should  we  do  any  better?" 

"It's  queer  how  ideas  come  to  me  when 
I'm  ragged,"  Chignole  announced  philosophi- 
cally, "Behold  my  visions!  I  see  a  machine 
flying  over  the  aforesaid  battery  at  twilight. 
What  happens?" 

"The  battery  fires." 

"But  as  night  is  coming  on — what  do  we 
see?" 

"The  flash  of  the  shells,"  answered  Papa 
Charles,  suddenly  interested. 

[49] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"Second  vision!  Another  machine  prowl- 
ing over  the  lines.  It  notes  the  exact  position 
of  the  battery  by  the  flashes  from  the  guns, 
and  signals  the  range  to  our  artillery  by 
wireless." 

"Come  on,  fellahs!"  cried  Papa  Charles. 
And  they  went  back  to  the  hangars  at  double 
quick. 

When  the  Captain's  consent  had  been 
obtained,  Chignole  superintended  the  in- 
stallation  of  the  wireless.  It  was  agreed  that 
Flagada's  machine  should  serve  as  target; 
and  to  handle  it  with  the  least  effort, 
they  put  in  as  little  weight  as  possible: 
the  exact  allowance  of  petrol  and  oil — no 
more. 

The  afternoon  arrived.  A  last  telephone 
call  to  the  artillery  of  the  sector,  to  make  sure 
of  a  good  connection,  and  Papa  Charles  started 
up  first,  to  try  his  luck.  The  late  spring  had 
not  yet  altered  the  face  of  the  country.  The 
forests  were  still  black;  the  grayish  meadows 
and  the  bare  fields  still  showed  their  furrows 
in  sharp  relief.  Nevertheless,  the  sun  was 
(sol 


The  Climbers 

painting  Nancy  with  the  tenderest  tints  of 
his  palette;  the  bell-towers  were  rose,  the 
roofs,  dove-coloured,  the  golden  gates  of 
Jean  Lamour  were  burnished  new. 

"Now  Fve  got  my  bearings,"  cried  Chig- 
nole.  "There's  the  Rue  St.  Jean — the  Rue 
du  Pont-Mouja, — la  Pepiniere.  She  climbs ! — 
Two  thousand  metres.  Great  sport,  Papa 
Charles!" 

A  machine  appeared  above  Malzeville  and 
dived  toward  the  lines. 

" It's  Flagada.     Forward  March ! " 

They  pass  the  trenches.  They  unwind 
the  antennae  of  the  wireless.  The  details 
of  the  landscape  dissolve,  little  by  little,  but 
certain  landmarks  remain  visible.  The  tar- 
get plane  circles,  dips  very  low,  like  a  bird 
hesitating  above  its  nest. 

"Ready!"  Chignole  taps  the  key  and  sends 
up  the  signals  agreed  on. 

Suddenly  a  flash,  followed  by  several 
others,  streaks  across  the  dusk.  Chignole 
locates  on  his  map. 

"Square  97."     He  presses  the  key  twice. 
[SI] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

A  few  seconds,  and  two  explosions  show  him 
that  our  artillery  has  obeyed. 

"Over." 

The  target  plane  is  now  being  harassed  at 
close  quarters  by  the  shrapnel. 

"What  have  the  poor  nuts  been  drinking!'* 

"If  the  gunners  reduce  the  range — they're 
done  for." 

Suddenly,  the  flashes  mingle  with  the  yel- 
low smoke  of  our  shells. 

"Fire  Hke  hell!"  shrieks  Chignole,  hitting 
the  key  a  smashing  blow.  "Forward,  boys! 
and  let  her  rip!  Don't  be  stingy  with  the 
shells." 

The  battery  site  disappears  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke  which  reddens  in  spots.  The  target- 
plane  gets  no  more  shots  and  the  white  pufF 
balls  of  the  last  shrapnel  dissolve  little  by 
little. 

"I  think  the  Boches  will  be  quiet  for  a  Httle 
while.     Fall  in,  mates,  for  a  tango  celebra- 


tion." 


Papa  Charles  cuts  down  the  gas  and  in- 
dulges his  biplane  in  various  weird  and  clever 
[52] 


The  Climbers 

stunts.  Flagada  does  likewise,  and  in  the 
calm,  serene,  violet  evening  the  two  vic- 
torious taxis  return  to  their  stable,  cutting 
capers  to  relieve  their  drivers'  feelings. 

Their  captain — an  ace  whom  nothing,  not 
even  honours,  could  surprise — gave  them  his 
felicitations.  Then,  addressing  himself  spe- 
cially to  Frangipane  he  said:  "Let's  see,  my 
friend,  you're  only  a  debutant;  you  must 
have  had  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour.  How 
did  you  feel?" 

And  Frangipane,  with  his  quizzical  and 
slightly  reserved  air,  repHed:  "To  tell  the 
truth,  Captain,  I've  never  had  any  emotions 
except  at  Venice.  I  say! — On  such  a  night, 
on  the  steps  of  the  Church  of  the  Scalzi,  a 
woman " 

"Good-night!"  snapped  the  Captain,  and 
beat  a  retreat,  muttering:  "I've  had  some 
freaks  in  this  squad — but  this  guy!" 

II.    game's  up 

"The  war  gets  worse  and  worse,"  Chignole 
announced    in    melancholy    tones,    scraping 

[S3l 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

the  mud  ofF  his  boots  with  the  point  of  his 
knife.  **Last  year,  it  was  comparatively 
easy  to  bring  down  sausages.  You  remem- 
ber, Papa  Charles.?" 

The  latter,  buried  in  a  newspaper,  assented 
with  a  grunt.  Flagada,  astride  his  bed,  was 
carefully  paring  his  almond-shaped  nails, 
while  Frangipane,  shifting  from  one  leg  to 
the  other,  munched  a  biscuit. 

"I  say.  Gang! — why  don't  you  take  an 
interest  in  what  I'm  saying?"  sputtered 
Chignole.  "For  heaven's  sake,  what's  your 
grouch?  You  needn't  act  so  sulky."  And 
pointing  out  of  the  window  at  the  great 
fat  yellowish  sausage  suspended  over  the 
lines:  "Don't  tell  me  you  can  look  at  that 
swollen  gullet  without  boiling  over."  After 
this  outburst,  he  retired  into  wrathful  silence. 

Papa  Charles  threw  aside  his  paper,  caught 
Frangipane  by  the  arm  as  he  was  making 
for  the  door,  signed  to  Flagada  and  Chignole 
to  sit  down  by  him  and  then  began  seriously, 
in  a  low  voice:  "Let's  talk  it  out.  As  for 
setting  fire  to  them  in  the  daytime,  that  sort 
[54] 


The  Climbers 

of  thing's  ended;  those  good  old  times  are 
over;  no  use  harking  back  to  them.  Still,  on 
a  fine  night,  when  the  details  of  the  landscape 
were  absolutely  clear,  it  might  not  be  im- 
possible to  succeed.'* 

"Yes;  but  when  we'd  retrieved  the  sausage, 
we'd  have  to  go  down  to  at  least  one 
hundred  metres." 

"Fifty." 

"Behind  the  Boches'  lines." 

"Sure," 

"And  what  if  there's  a  breakdown?" 

"We  stay  there. — Conclusion?" 

"We'll  do  it  this  evening.     It's  a  go!" 

When  the  Captain  was  consulted,  he  pro- 
tested vehemently;  but  he  knew  how  obsti- 
nate they  were.  And  they  did  not  let  him 
alone  until  they  had  obtained  his  consent. 
On  one  or  two  points,  however,  he  was 
firm. 

"Granted,  on  two  conditions:  one  machine 
only;  you  can  decide  among  you  which  goes. 
And — you're  not  to  go  up  unless  I'm  there. 
Understand?" 

[SSl 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"Oh,    Captain! — You're    an    ace!''    And 
Chignole  saluted,  flushing  with  delight. 


The  air  was  soft;  the  night  was  clear;  the 
moon  in  all  her  splendour  blotted  out  the 
stars  caught  in  the  ring  of  her  white  light. 
The  wind  blew  lightly  on  the  guy-ropes  that 
held  the  hangars  taut.  In  the  one  barrack 
that  was  lighted,  shadows  passed  now  and 
then  across  the  window  screen. 

"Let  me  take  your  place,  Chignole." 
"Awfully   sorry,   Vicomte;   but  not   this 


time." 


"Papa  Charles  thought  of  the  expedition; 
It's  natural  he  should  go.     But  you ?" 

"You,  who  are  engaged,"  added  Flagada. 

"Save  your  breath,  my  friends.  In  the 
first  place,  everybody's  more  or  less  engaged; 
secondly.  Papa  Charles  without  me  would 
not  be  Papa  Charles;  finally,  now  that  I'm 
reinstated  in  aviation,  I  want  to  show  them 
that  I'm  as  fit  as  I  ever  was.     'Nough  said." 

They  left  the  hut,  and  as  they  passed  the 

[56] 


The  Climbers 

headquarters  tent,  Papa  Charles  lifted  the 
tent  flap:    "We're  leaving,  Captain  1" 

"No  fog?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Wait,  I  want  to  see  for  myself."  He 
appeared  in  his  dressing  gown,  scrutinized 
the  horizon  carefully,  and  turned  his  electric 
lamp  on  the  barograph.  "Go  ahead,  boys; 
but  if,  when  you're  up,  you  find  it  the  least 
bit  hazy;  if  the  engine  doesn't  work  just  right; 
don't  hesitate,  return  at  once." 

They  shook  hands  silently. 

"Get  a  move  on,  Mimile!"  cried  Chignole 
entering  the  hangar. 

Mimile,  the  mechanician,  jumped  from  the 
cockpit  where  he  had  been  napping  with  one 
eye  open.  As  he  was  lighting  the  acetylene 
torches,  the  sentry  post  turned  on  the  search- 
light. 

"Is  it  all  ready?" 

"Would  I  be  snoring,  if  it  wasn't?" 

"Right  you  are,  Mr.  Mimile." 

While  the  travellers  were  settling  them- 
selves, Flagada  and  Frangipane  looked  over 
[57] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

the  exposed    parts   of  the   controls.     They 
clambered  up  on  the  footboards. 

"Here,"  said  Frangipane  to  Chignole,  giv- 
ing him  a  pocketbook.  "A  thousand  francs  in 
Boche  banknotes.     It  may  be  useful." 

"Here,"  said  Flagada  to  Papa  Charles, 
handing  him  a  Browning.  "The  latest 
plaything  of  the  year,  eight  balls  in  three 
seconds.     It  may  be  useful." 

"Were  there  ever  such  pals!"  murmured 
Chignole,  overwhelmed.  And  Papa  Charles 
started  off  abruptly  to  hide  his  feelings. 

They  left  the  earth.  The  houses  of  Nancy 
cast  their  pointed  shadows  on  the  pallid 
streets.  The  curves  of  the  Meurthe  toward 
Tomblaine  were  shining  like  polished  steel. 
At  the  factories  of  Dombasle  tongues  of 
fire  shot  up  into  the  sky. 

"Don't  mistake  the  Moselle  for  the 
Meurthe." 

"Fm  skirting  the  Marne-Rhine  Canal. 
Look  at  the  revolution-counter.  The  hand's 
jumping." 

"Yes;  the  mill's  making  a  funny  noise." 
[S8] 


The  Climbers 

"It's  not  normal.     Shall  we  go  back?" 

Go  back?  The  thought  chilled  them. 
Their  pride  was  hard  hit.  What  would  their 
comrades  think.? — and  the  Captain?  They 
would  have  to  confess  that  luck  had  deserted 
them.  Already  they  felt  humiliated,  de- 
graded. 

**We  should  worry!    Let's  go  on." 

"Same  here!" 

Above  the  lines. — A  few  shells;  but  as  the 
moon  is  full  the  searchlights  are  not  so  in- 
tense and  the  aim  is  wide. 

"I'll  make  a  loop  to  fool  them." 

They  go  rambling  above  the  pool  of  Lindre. 
They  fly  over  Dieuze,  Morhange,  then  take 
the  direction  of  Chateau-Salins. 

Papa   Charles   slackens   his   speed:    "Do 
you  hear?     Skipping?" 
'  "A  little  water  in  the  carbureter.     She'll 
win  out.     Don't  you  worry!" 

They  descend. — Chignole  scans  the  land- 
scape. In  a  glade  is  a  kind  of  dome,  white 
under  the^moon. 

** There's  the  objective." 
[59] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

With  gas  cut  off,  the  biplane  slides  down 
noiselessly.  Papa  Charles  makes  the  contact 
from  time  to  time,  to  be  sure  of  the  connec- 
tion. 

"Eighty  metres.  Not  yet.  Don't  be  in 
a  hurry.  Don't  miss  it.  Get  your  rockets 
ready." 

But  to  volplane  better  he  has  shortened 
his  dive  too  much,  and  the  propeller  stops 
in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  make  the  engine 
go  again.  In  their  desperation  they  stand 
almost  upright  in  the  cockpit. 

"Hell!"    i 

"Game's  up." 

Papa  Charles  noses  up;  the  machine  clears 
the  trees  and  lands  right-side  up  in  a  meadow. 
They  are  on  the  edge  of  a  village  whose 
first  houses  they  can  just  make  out.  Nothing 
stirs.     They  venture  to  breathe. 

"Talk  about  adventures!" 

"Hurry  up  down  there.     Let's  get  out." 

As  soon  as  he  touched  the  engine,  Chig- 
nole's  dexterity  came  back  to  him.  He 
took  the  nuts  out  of  the  cover  of  the  distribu- 
[60] 


-^asj 


The  Climbers 

tor,  feverishly:  '*I  knew  it!  The  distributor 
arm  is  fouled;  the  ebonite  box  isn't  tight,  the 
coils  are  covered  with  oil  and  the  mill  turns 
too  slow  to  make  a  spark." 

"How  much  time  will  it  take?" 

"To  dry  it  out?  We  must  have  a  fire, 
first  thing." 

"Time,  I  ask  you;  how  much  time?" 

"Look!    Will  you  look!" 

The  sky  was  paHng;  the  moon  was  fading; 
the  stars  were  going  out;  the  leaves  trembled 
under  the  wind  of  dawn. 

"Day!"  murmured  Chignole  softly,  bend- 
ing his  head.     "Game's  up! — Prisoners!" 

"Never!"  and  Papa  Charles  patted  the 
trigger  of  the  pistol  in  his  pocket. 


The  machine  had  long  been  swallowed  up 
in  the  night,  but  Frangipane  and  Flagada 
did  not  dream  of  leaving  the  plateau.  They 
walked  up  and  down  restlessly,  their  hands 
in  their  pockets,  stopping  only  to  light  fresh 
cigarettes.  Mimile  consulted  his  watch  every 
[6i] 


t^ 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

few  minutes  and  put  it  to  his  ear  to  make  sure 
that  it  was  going. 

"Are  you  sure  they  took  their  map?" 

"Yes,  Flagada;  and  Chignole  even  pasted 
at  the  top  the  ten  thousandth  detail  as  to 
the  position  of  the  sausage." 

"You  didn't  forget  to  fill  her  up  with 
water?" 

"What!  That  radiator  dribbled  up  to 
the  time  they  left." 

"They'll  have  crossed  the  lines  by  now." 

"They'll  have  made  the  goal " 

"Not  yet.  Papa  Charles  is  much  too 
clever  to  give  his  scheme  away  to  them  at 
once." 

"Did  you  examine  the  magneto  care- 
fully?" 

"As  I  would  for  myself;  as  if  I  myself  had 
been  going  to  fly  the  'bus." 

The  night  freshened.  A  cock  on  the  Mal- 
zeville  farm  invited  his  brothers  to  sing  ma- 
tins. The  Captain  came  toward  them,  still 
in  his  dressing  gown,  his  field  glasses  slung 
over  his  shoulder. 

M62] 


The  Climbers 

"You've  not  yet  seen  signs  of  German 
shelling  over  the  lines?" 

"No,  sir;  nothing." 

"They  won't  be  long,  now." 

One  by  one  the  squad  arrived,  in  slippers, 
their  tunics  thrown  hastily  over  their  shoul- 
ders. 

"When  did  they  go  up?" 

"At  half-past  two,  sir." 

"Twenty  minutes  past  four.  They  ought 
to  be  in  sight.  Telephone  the  artillery; 
doubtless  the  observers  can  give  us  news." 

A  secretary  ran  to  Headquarters.  The 
sky,  emptied  of  its  stars,  was  gray,  but  where 
it  touched  the  earth,  it  was  turning  to  rose. 
It  was  as  if  a  huge  fire  kindled  the  horizon. 
Golden  beams  arose  on  all  sides,  sprung  as 
if  from  magic  fireworks. 

"The  sun!" 

Eyes  questioned  the  void;  hearts  were 
wrung  with  an  unreasoning  anguish. 

The  artillery  telephoned:  "Nothing  to 
report." 

"If  they're  not  here  in  ten  minutes '* 

[63] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

The  Captain  ended  his  sentence  with  a 
significant  shrug. 

Yonder  in  the  light  of  the  dawn,  the  enemy 
sausage  swayed  heavily. 

They  looked  at  one  another  and  said  noth- 
ing.    Death  was  passing  by. 

III.     GO  down!    they're  asking  for  you 

Seated  on  the  grass,  at  the  foot  of  the  bi- 
plane, Chignole  was  mechanically  plucking 
the  little  Easter  daisies.  He  awaited  with 
resignation  the  stroke  of  Fate  and  the  orders 
of  his  companion.  Papa  Charles,  his  face 
distorted  with  helpless  rage,  sputtered  mean- 
ingless phrases  between  drawn  lips. 

*'Set  fire  to  the  cuckoo.  Save  ourselves — 
there's  the  forest.  Hide — till  to-night.  Cross 
the  hnes " 

Chignole  rose  calmly,  thrust  the  posies 
into  his  pocket,  scratched  a  match,  and  un- 
screwed the  stopper  of  the  petrol  tank. 

"Stop!"  cried  Papa  Charles  in  a  shaking 
voice,  hesitant  in  the  face  of  the  irreparable. 
"Let's  try  once  more  to  start  her.  Hurry!" 
[64] 


The  Climbers 

In  the  pale  morning,  while  Chignole,  grop- 
ing, did  his  best  to  buck  up  the  engine,  Papa 
Charles,  in  the  cockpit,  with  one  hand  on  the 
control,  the  other  at  the  trigger  of  the  machine 
gun,  waited  for  the  enemy.  Before  them,  a 
road  bordered  with  trees;  on  the  right  and 
behind,  a  wood;  on  the  left,  fifty  metres 
away,  the  village.  Daylight  kindled  the 
window  panes;  horses  neighed;  a  bell  rang. 

"Well!" 

"Fve  cJeaned  the  distributor  as  well  as  I 
can.     Open  the  petrol." 

Just  then  a  sharp  Httle  trumpet  shook  out 
the  tripping  notes  of  the  German  reveille. 
Papa  Charles  smothered  an  oath  and  gnawed 
his  fingers  till  they  bled.  Chignole,  glued 
to  the  propeller,  cranked  it  violently.  The 
engine  responded  with  a  hoarse  sigh. 

"She  speaks!     Up,  my  beauty!" 

Chignole,  dripping  with  sweat,  covered 
with  oil  and  axle-grease,  his  gaze  fixed,  his 
hair  blowing  in  the  wind,  hideous  and  superb, 
recranks  the  screw  with  the  energy  of  despair. 
Explosions  in  the  cylinder! — Irregular,  then 
[65] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

rhythmic!  In  the  doorway  of  a  house  a 
soldier — -a  Boche  —  appears.  He  stands 
amazed  at  sight  of  the  tricolour  on  the  aero- 
plane, but  pulls  himself  together  and  aims 
his  gun. 

"Tac — tac — tac — tac!" 

Papa  Charles  has  fired.  Like  wheat  before 
the  scythe,  the  soldier  drops,  head  first, 
arms  extended  crosswise.  The  biplane  spins. 
Chignole  comes  aboard  with  a  flying  leap 
and  seizes  the  machine  gun,  while  his  com- 
rade grips  the  steering  gear.  The  curtain 
of  trees  approaches  with  terrible  rapidity. 

"What  do  you  bet,  we  make  our  get- 
away?" 

The  trees!  The  trees!  Will  it  be  a 
smash-up?  Papa  Charles  shuts  his  eyes  in- 
stinctively and  pulls  the  joy-stick.  The  ma- 
chine hesitates,  seems  to  hang  motionless, 
to  gather  itself  together  like  a  horse  at  a 
fence.  Papa  Charles  opens  his  eyes.  The 
wheels  are  brushing  the  green  tree-tops. 
Cleared!  He  noses  down  lightly  to  prevent 
a  sHp.  Down  on  the  road  there  is  a  whirlwind 
[66] 


The  Climbers 

of  dust  where  the  automobiles  are  dashing 
after  them. 

"  Whoop-la !  Hi — !  you  boobies ! "  chortles 
Chignole. 

In  climbing,  they  have  come  back  again 
over  the  village,  where  an  enemy  battalion, 
evidently  quartered  there,  takes  them  for  a 
target. 

"Save  your  bullets,  gawks!" 

At  a  window  of  the  house  on  whose  thresh- 
old they  had  so  lately  landed  women  are 
waving  frantic  handkerchiefs. 

^^Vive  la  France!  We  shall  meet  again 
soonl" 

Papa  Charles,  in  fine  fettle,  whirls,  turns, 
capers — always  following  the  homeward  road. 
At  eight  hundred  metres  Chignole  lets  out  a 
yell  which  drowns  the  roar  of  the  engine. 

"Golly,  old  chap!  we're  going  to  make  a 
good  job  of  it  after  all!     Fine  work!'* 

Below  them  the  sausage — their  German 
sausage — soars  peacefully. 

"Do  you  get  her?" 

"I  think  so." 

[67] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Papa  Charles  dives  at  full  speed.  The 
balloon  swells  beneath  their  eyes  as  they 
make  their  dizzy  descent.  Papa  Charles 
flattens  out  abruptly.  Chignole  launches 
the  incendiary  rockets.  They  turn  over  on 
the  wing  to  get  the  effect — and  a  thick  black 
smoke  fringed  with  purple  envelops  the  bal- 
loon, which  makes  several  plunges;  then — 
bursts. 

"Go  down!  They're  asking  for  you!" 
declaims  Chignole  in  the  tone  of  a  funeral 
oration. 

"They  haven't  wasted  our  time.  They'll 
be  suffocated,  poor  devils!"  j 

"If  you  want  my  advice,  don't  say  any- 
thing about  this  to  the  others;  they'd  never 
believe  you." 

Then  they  abandoned  themselves  to  the 
sweet  satisfaction  of  having  escaped  a  great 
danger.  All  the  reflections  which  they  were 
unable  to  indulge  in  at  the  crucial  moment 
beset  them  now  that  they  were  safe. 

"Prisoners!"  thought  Chignole.  "What  a 
dirty  trick!  And  me  just  about  to  be  mar- 
[68  1 


^he  Climbers 

ried.  What  a  bouquet  for  a  bridegroom! 
And  my  poor  Sophie  laid  on  the  shelf.'*  But 
his  natural  optimism  soon  got  the  upperhand. 
**  Still  it  would  have  been  better  than  being 
knifed.  And  besides,  there's  always  a  way 
to  manage.  Birds  like  us  wouldn't  stay  long 
in  their  clutches.  We  should  soon  have  been 
singing  the  Chant  du  Depart.'* 

"Prisoners!"  thought  Papa  Charles. 
"What  should  I  have  done  if  the  'bus  had 
left  us  in  the  lurch .?  Sold  my  skin  dearly — 
fired  my  last  cartridge.?  Yes;  but  even  so, 
Chignole  would  have  been  shot.  Surrender? 
Gaol  until  the  end  of  the  war."  A  series 
of  unpleasant  images  passed  before  his 
mind,  and  he  smiled  happily  at  the  sunny 
land  of  France,  beckoning  them,  calling 
them. 

"Here's  where  we  break  our  necks. — 
There's  a  barrage  of  Fokkers  over  the  lines." 

"Six!  That's  a  little  thick.  Any  more 
petrol?" 

"Enough  for  an  hour." 

"We'll  make  it!" 

[69I 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

They  refused  combat,  made  a  left  oblique, 
and  crossed  the  Seille  above  Marsal.  The 
Fokkers  turned  at  the  same  angle,  but  they 
were  embarrassed  in  their  chase  by  having 
the  sun  directly  in  their  faces. 

"They're  not  gaining  on  us." 

*'No,   but   another  squad   is   coming   to 


meet  us." 


"Six  behind — three  in  front! — It's  getting 
unhealthy." 
"What's  the  name  of  the  place  we're  flying 


overr 


"Azoudanges." 

"Well,  we're  headed  for  its  cemetery,  all 
right;  but  we're  not  the  only  ones  that'll 
sleep  there. — Pigs!" 

Papa  Charles  plunged,  stood  up  on  end 
and  turned,  and  charged  into  the  troop  of  six. 
His  manoeuvre  was  so  unexpected  that  the 
Boches  could  not  turn  for  fear  of  going  down 
together.  They  were  obliged  to  scatter,  and 
Papa  Charles  profited  by  the  ensuing  confu- 
sion to  make  for  the  frontier,  while  Chignole 
covered  their  retreat  with  repeated  salvos. 

[701 


The  Climbers 

The  Boches,  however,  did  not  consider  them- 
selves beaten,  and  forming  anew  in  a  semi- 
circle, they  charged  the  biplane. 

"They  won't  get  us;  there  are  the  trenches." 

"Yes,  but  look!"     Right  above  them  a 

machine  approached  at  frantic  speed,  and 

with  the  wind  in  its  favour.     "That  one  will 

get  us,  sure!" 

But  Chignole  had  seized  his  field  glasses. 
"No;  Papa  Charles,  that  one  won't  get  us — 
for  that  one — is  Frangipane  and  Flagada." 


Above  their  own  ground,  they  let  them- 
selves go  in  fantastic  gyrations,  as  if  in  a 
drunken  machine,  and  landed  with  engine 
stopped,  in  perfect  form. 
\.  When  the  Captain  came  up  to  compliment 
them,  Chignole  drew  from  his  pocket  the 
flowers  which  he  had  put  there. 

"Pardon  us  for  being  late,  but  we  stopped 
to  pick  these.     It  occurs  to  me  you  might 
like  to  send  this  bouquet  to  your  wife.  Cap- 
tain.    It's  from  Lorraine.     She  won't  find 
[71] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

these   flowers    at   the   florists   in    little    old 
Paris,  and  Vvn  sure  they'll  give  her  pleasure." 

IV.      CHIGNOLE   GETS    MARRIED 

**  Don't  lean  out  of  the  window,  little 
daughter.  Look  out  for  trains  coming  from 
the  opposite  direction,  and  for  cinders  from 
the  engine.  You'd  be  a  lovely  sight  if  you 
came  to  your  wedding  with  an  eye  as  big  as 
that " 

M.  Bassinet  showed  Sophie  his  two  fists 
clasped  together  to  make  his  effect;  then, 
satisfied  by  his  unanswerable  argument,  he 
retired  deeper  into  his  corner,  chewing  his 
pipe  which  had  been  out  some  time.  Oppo- 
site him,  his  wife  slept  noisily,  her  double 
chin  propped  on  her  breast  which  was  upheld 
by  her  corsets.  Beside  her,  M.  Fondu  was 
squeezed  up  asleep;  but  always  dignified, 
he  held  clasped  on  his  knees  the  stovepipe 
hat  which  he  could  not  bear  to  trust  to  the 
net  overhead.  He  dared  not  lean  back 
against  the  cushions  of  the  compartment  lest 
he  crack  his  shirt-front,  and  his  body  bounced 
[72] 


The  Climbers 

and  rattled  with  the  motion  of  the  train.  In 
the  opposite  corner,  Maman  Chignole  slept, 
her  head  in  a  black  muslin  scarf  which  set 
off  her  silvery  hair.  Now  and  then  the 
weary  lines  about  her  mouth  would  vanish, 
and  she  would  smile  lingeringly  at  her  dream, 
her  son.  Although  M.  Bassinet  was  bored 
by  the  silence  and  felt  the  need  of  exchanging 
opinions  with  someone,  he  did  not  venture 
to  wake  them;  but  turned  once  more  to 
Sophie : 

"How  you  do  persist  in  looking  out  of  the 
window!  Really,  child,  it*s  high  time  you 
got  married;  there's  no  living  with  you  any 
more.'* 

But  the  girl,  with  eyes  half  closed  by  the 
wind  that  blew  her  blonde  curls,  followed 
the  course  of  the  train  anxiously,  trying  hard 
to  decipher  the  names  of  the  stations  which 
they  passed  without  stopping. 

"Nancy,  Papa !     Here's  Nancy ! " 

M.  Bassinet  rammed  his  pipe  with  a 
powerful  thumb,  and  woke  the  sleepers: 
"Well!  We've  come  through  without  a 
[73] 


Birds  oj  a  Feather 

collision!  Ma'me  Bassinet,  I'm  not  finding 
fault,  but  ever  since  we  left  the  Gare  de  TEst, 
what  haven't  you  given  us  in  the  way  of 
music!  The  orchestra  of  the  Garde  RepubH- 
caine  isn't  in  it  with  you! — But  let's  be 
serious.  We're  here.  We  must  be  ready  for 
anything.  The  bundles  are  numbered ;  every- 
body carry  his  own!" 

They  were  bumping  over  the  switches. 
The  brakes  squeaked;  the  wheels  slowed  up. 
M.  Bassinet  polished  the  buttons  of  his 
raiment  with  his  sleeve,  settled  his  cravat, 
and  gave  his  glazed  hat  a  rakish  tilt. 

"Let's  be  getting  out.  The  head  of  the 
family  first."  Then,  with  a  severe  counte- 
nance: "We  must  mind  our  manners;  here, 
we  are  at  the  front." 

******* 

The  mechanics,  who  had  got  up  early  on 
purpose,  were  decorating  the  interior  of  the 
hangar  called  "Bessonneau,"  after  its  builder, 
where  the  religious  ceremony  was  to  take 
place.  Chignole's  officers,  wishing  to  show 
him  a  special  mark  of  their  affection  and 

l74l 


Th^  Climbers 

esteem,  had  decided  to  give  him  an  out-and- 
out  "aviation"  wedding,  and  therefore  to 
celebrate  it  in  his  unit. 

A  biplane  spread  its  wings  above  the  altar 
where  the  priest  was  to  officiate.  Behind  him, 
in  the  alcove,  "Fatty,"  and  "Hurricane 
Harry,"  repeated  one  last  time,  under  their 
breath,  a  "Panis  Angelicus."  "Fatty"  was 
a  little  roly-poly  man  with  a  head  like  a  bil- 
liard ball,  eyes  like  marbles,  a  pot-belly,  and 
legs  the  shape  of  stovepipes.  A  chorister  in  a 
church  at  Versailles,  he  had  a  pleasant  though 
nasal  voice.  "Hurricane  Harry'*  had  been 
conceived  all  in  one  dimension:  he  was  long, 
with  a  big  nose  as  sharp  as  a  razor.  He  did 
not  walk;  he  cleft,  he  pricked,  he  pierced.  A 
musical  clown  in  civil  life,  he  was  a  virtuoso 
upon  a  violin  made  of  a  cigar  box,  a  broom 
handle,  and  strings  of  a  sort.  These  two — 
pilot  and  observer  respectively  in  Chignole's 
squad — had  planned  an  agreeable  surprise  for 
him  by  combining  their  talents. 

Midday. — Automobiles,  animated  groups, 
hubbub.  The  procession  made  its  way  with 
[7S] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

solemnity  from  the  mayor's  house  to  the 
hangar.  At  the  head  walked  the  Bassinet 
of  this  great  occasion,  apoplectic  in  an  ex- 
tremely tall  celluloid  collar,  his  eye  moist, 
his  moustache  bristling  with  emotion. 
Sophie's  little  gloved  hand  lay  lightly  on  his 
great  knotty  arm;  her  blonde  hair  was 
braided  in  a  crown;  although  embarrassed, 
yet  she  smiled  under  her  veil. 

"The  pretty  little  darling!"  exclaimed 
Mimile  as  she  passed  by.  "She's  like  a 
flower!  I  can  understand  that  kind  of 
marriage." 

Behind,  Chignole  strutted  to  conceal  his 
anguish.  The  violent  beating  of  his  heart 
shook  his  decorations  on  their  new  ribbons. 
He  escorted  Madame  Bassinet,  scintillating 
in  her  trained  dress  of  garnet  velvet  trimmed 
with  bugles.  A  huge  bird  brooded  on  her 
hat. 

Dazzled,  staggered,  upset  by  this  adven- 
ture, for  which  forty  years  of  oiEce-life  had 
left  him  unprepared,  M.  Fondu  felt  as  if  a 
trap-door  would  open  and  swallow  him  up  at 

[76] 


The  Climbers 

his  next  step.  Nevertheless,  in  his  best  man- 
ner, he  gave  his  arm  to  "Mama  Chignole," 
very  distinguished  in  her  neat  and  simple 
toilette.  Behind  came  Papa  Charles,  Frangi- 
pane,  Flagada,  and  the  noisy  crowd  of  all  their 
comrades  in  variegated  uniforms. 

The  ceremony  began.  Fatty's  sacred  song, 
assisted  by  the  accompaniment  of  Hurricane 
Harry,  rose  sublime  above  the  bent  heads. 
The  big  guns,  far  away,  played  a  basso 
profundo. 

"Those  guys  sure  can  warble!"  murmured 
Chignole,  gazing,  deeply  moved,  at  the  little 
figure,  so  white  and  delicate,  which  knelt  be- 
side him. 

M.  Bassinet  contemplated  the  Captain, 
the  officers;  counted  up  the  crosses,  the 
medals,  the  palms,  and  plumed  himself  on 
the  honour  that  was  being  paid  his  family. 
Ah,  if  the  lodgers  in  the  house  could  see 
all  this!  They  would  undoubtedly  pay  up 
more  promptly,  and  not  invoke  the  mora- 
torium. They  would  have  some  respect  for 
their  concierges. 

l77] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Madame  Bassinet  wept  silently.  Her  tears 
fell  on  the  fine  missal  which  she  had  not  car- 
ried since  her  marriage,  and  which  still  smelt 
of  the  camphor  from  the  wardrobe  in  which 
she  kept  her  old  treasures.  ^'Mama  Chignole*' 
prayed.  M.  Fondu  rolled  his  bewildered 
eyes. 

Immediately  after  the  benediction  there 
was  a  sudden  hurly  burly,  and  an  excited 
secretary  made  his  way  to  the  Captain: 
"Communication  from  G.H.Q.  In  reprisal 
for  the  bombarding  of  open  towns,  a  raid  on 
Metz." 

The  Captain  raised  his  hand,and  the  hangar 
was  emptied  immediately.  Everybody  hus- 
tled, running  to  his  own  machine.  Hurricane 
Harry  tossed  his  violin  to  M.  Fondu  who  was 
gaping  at  all  this  madness.  Fatty  hummed 
the  words  of  the  Marseillaise  to  the  tune  of 
the  Veni  Creator,  Chignole,  caught  In  the 
geveral  fever,  would  have  darted  off  despite 
Sophie  whose  fingers  clung  to  his  hand,  but 
the  Captain  called  him  back  peremptorily. 

"Ah,  no,  my  boy,  not  you.  You're 
[78] 


The  Climbers 

on  leave.  To-day  you  belong  to  your 
wife.  France  would  not  have  you  so  un- 
faithful." 

While  the  planes  rose  one  by  one,  their 
engines  purring  gaily,  drunken  with  sun  and 
light,  and  dived  toward  the  frontier  between 
the  Moselle  and  the  Seille,  Chignole  and  the 
civilians  went  down  to  Nancy.  He  was 
happy;  yes,  he  was  happy;  but  why  did  the 
ring  that  shone  on  his  finger  suddenly  feel 
heavy?  Ah,  it  is  hard  to  love — to  bind  one's 
self,  and  to  fight! 


That  night,  the  dining  room  of  the  hotel, 
where  the  wedding  feast  took  place,  was 
stormed  by  the  same  noisy  band  of  the 
morning.  They  sat  down,  and  Frangipane 
was  already  casting  longing  eyes  at  a  cake 
plate. 

**Two  people  are  absent,"  M.  Bassinet 
announced,  pointing  to  the  empty  places. 

There  was  an  abrupt  silence,  then  the  voice 
of  Papa  Charles  rose,  deep  and  sad:  "It  is 
[79l 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Fatty  and  Hurricane  Harry.     They  will  not 
be  here.     They  were  left  behind." 


The  deep  forest  is  stirred  this  evening  by 
a  thousand  noises.  The  wind  flutters  the 
flames  of  torches  held  by  soldiers  in  gray- 
green  uniform.  They  light  up  fitfully  a  tragic 
tangle  of  wood  and  metal  that  men  are  me- 
thodically trying  to  clear  up.  In  its  fall, 
the  airplane  has  mowed  down  branches  of 
trees  and  the  earth  is  strewn  with  leaves 
and  twigs.  Someone  gives  brief  commands. 
More  lights  are  brought  and  the  corpses  are 
revealed.  Death  has  respected  their  faces. 
With  eyes  closed,  they  seem  to  sleep.  The 
bodies  are  imprisoned  within  the  machine 
which  holds  them  as  if  it  would  never  let 
them  go.  The  lugubrious  workmen  try  to 
free  them  from  their  bonds,  but  find  them  so 
crushed  in  their  fur  coats  that  there  is  no 
chance  of  getting  them  out  whole.  The 
linen  of  the  wings  hangs  in  rags — tattered 
and  torn.  A  cockade  in  three  colours,  almost 
[80] 


The  Climbers 

whole,  waves  from  the  top  of  a  pine-tree, 
like  a  challenge  to  Fate.  A  saw  creaks 
upon  a  small  aluminium  bar  beneath  which 
an  arm  is  caught.  The  clenched  hand,  on 
which  the  blood  has  dried  in  blackish  flakes, 
still  threatens.  Now,  on  the  stretchers, 
there  are  only  two  dead  weights  that  make 
the  bearers  stagger. 

Ditches  at  the  edge  of  a  sunken  road. 
The  smell  of  upturned  earth,  of  trampled 
moss,  of  torn  roots  losing  their  sap.  A  picket 
doing  the  last  honours  to  the  dead.  Fatty 
and  Hurricane  Harry  rest  in  German  soil. 


The  dinner  proceeded.  Flagada  went 
through  his  repertoire,  then  imitated  Mayol 
and  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  turn.  The  Captain 
made  a  little  speech  in  honour  of  the  bride 
and  the  groom;  a  simple  Httle  speech,  but  it 
touched  all  hearts. 

M.  Bassinet  would  have  responded  with 
the  formal  address  which  he  had  prepared 
beforehand  and  learned  by  heart,  but  the 
f  8il 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

champagne,  although  it  made  him  very  happy, 
had  wiped  his  speech  from  his  memory. 
Nevertheless,  he  rose,  his  goblet  trembling 
in  his  hand: 

"Captain,  I  shall  say  nothing;  but  my 
silence  will  speak.  Do  you  understand 
my  silence?'*  And  he  sat  down  amidst  loud 
applause,  under  the  impression  that  he  had 
been  quoting  from  Lamartine. 

"I'm  so  glad  he  stopped  there,"  murmured 
Madame  Bassinet  in  Papa  Charles's  ear. 
"If  he  had  once  got  twisted  up  in  his  words, 
the  war  would  have  ended  before  he  got 
through." 

"Mama  Chignole"  gazed  down  at  the 
photograph-brooch  which  fastened  her  waist, 
and  smiled  at  the  twin  medallions  of  her 
husband  and  her  son.  They  did  not  look 
like  father  and  child,  but  like  two  brothers. 
How  proud  the  dear  departed  would  have 
been  to  be  present  at  this  glorification  of  his 
little  son!  But  would  his  happiness  be 
unsullied,  complete?  Would  he  not  resent 
with  her  the  grim  sadness  masked  beneath 
[82] 


The  Climbers 

this  festival.  For  many  of  these  merry- 
makers the  hours  are  numbered.  His  son 
perhaps  is  one  of  them. 

"Poor  darhng!  I  wish  I  might  keep  you; 
defend  you !  If  it  were  only  blood  that  were 
needed;  would  that  they  might  take  the 
blood  of  us  who  have  Hved,  who  are  worn  out. 
Would  that  the  parents  might  be  sacrificed, 
the  children  spared.  Not  him;  me — me — 
no  longer  good  for  anything — not  himl" 
This  is  what  the  imperceptible  quiver  of  her 
lips  really  said. 

M.  Fondu,  emerging  from  his  confusion, 
was  about  to  get  on  his  feet,  when  he  con- 
ceived the  original  idea  of  questioning  Flaga- 
da  about  aviation.  And  Flagada,  fluent  to 
a  degree,  drowned  him  beneath  the  flood  of 
slang  current  in  the  fifth  arm  of  the  service. 
M.  Fondu,  submerged,  had  only  the  strength 
to  stammer:     "G-G-Gasl" 

Frangipane  gathered  together  by  ingenious 
manoeuvres  the  plates  of  cakes,  passed  them 
in  review,  made  his  choice,  and  provisioned 
himself  for  a  future  emergency. 
I83] 


Birds  oj  a  Feather 

'  Suddenly,  the  sinister  bellowing  of  a  siren 
hushed  the  voices,  arrested  the  laughter. 

"One  call.    That's  only  one  plane." 

They  went  to  the  window^s,  and  saw  a 
biplane  of  the  guard  rise  from  the  plateau, 
and  passing  over  them,  light  its  beacons  to 
salute  them.  The  searchlights  revolved;  in 
the  direction  of  the  lines  there  were  flashes 
from  shells. 

"It  ought  to  be  visible.  The  call  came 
from  Frouard.  Now! — the  plateau  battery 
is  firing!" 

But,  immediately,  the  firing  began  to  come 
at  longer  intervals.  The  hammering  died 
away — stopped. 

"Merely  a  warning.  A  stray  plane,  or  a 
witty  Boche,  come  to  remind  us  that  it's 
time  to  leave  our  young  couple."  And  the 
Captain  gave  the  signal  for  breaking  up. 

The  night  was  mild  and  white.  The  cathe- 
dral threw  the  lengthening  shadow  of  its 
little  bell-towers  on  the  stones  of  the 
square.  Night  lamps  revealed  peaceful  in- 
teriors between  the  half-open  Persian  blinds. 

[84] 


The  Climbers 

The  wind  brought  with  it  the  smell  of  lilac 
and  acacias  from  the  gardens.  The  intoxi- 
cation of  spring  touched  the  young  men, 
brushing  them  lightly.  The  moon,  the  lights 
and  the  sweet  smells  bewitched  them,  ming- 
ling so  indistinguishably  that  the  darkness 
seemed  mauve  because  it  smelt  of  lilacs, 
and  the  night  was  pale  because  it  was  fragrant 
with  acacia.  Just  when  they  had  crossed 
the  bridge  of  Essey,  a  carriage  drew  up,  with 
Mimile  crouching  rabbit-fashion  on  the  foot- 
board. 

"Cap'n  there?"  he  cried. 

"  Yes.     Anything  the  matter  ? " 

"The  Boche  who  flew  over  dropped  a  bag 
that  fell  on  the  75  near  the  telemeter.  There 
was  a  letter  in  it  which  announced  that 
Fatty  and  Hurricane  Harry  had  been  brought 
down  by  one  of  their  men  and  killed  in  the 
fall." 

Death,  forgotten  for  the  moment,  gripped 

them   anew.     They   felt   her  very   close  to 

them — prowling    near    them,    in    the    dark 

comers,  in  the  echo  of  their  footsteps.    Their 

[85] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

shoulders  drooped  and  they  stared  at  the 
ground  as  if  they  had  stumbled  upon  their 
own  graves.  Presently,  as  they  climbed 
up  the  hillside  by  slippery  by-paths,  the  trio, 
the  rear-guard,  exchanged  ideas. 

"Funny  to  be  only  three  of  us!" 

"Chignole's  a  quitter." 

"You'll  see,  he  won't  be  the  same.  Idiotic 
idea  to  get  married  during  the  war.  Chig- 
nole's  a  fool." 

But  Papa  Charles  shook  his  head:  "No, 
no;  the  fool  is  the  wisest  of  us.  If  Chignole 
stays  out  here — ^when  it's  over — at  least  he 
won't  die  utterly.  He's  the  only  one  of  us  four 
to  give  hostages  to  fortune,  and  he'll  fight  all 
the  better  because  he's  defending  his  own 
interests,  his  own  property,  in  concrete  form." 

"Just  the  same,  old  chap,  a  bird  ought  not 
to  have  a  string  round  its  claw.  By  jinks, 
we  have  our  feelings,  too — ^you  bet! — but  no 
ties  for  mine,  to  make  the  struggle  more 
painful  and  diificult.  If  we're  going  to  be 
sparrows,  better  have  sparrows'  hearts." 

******* 
[86] 


The  Climbers 

Chignole  and  Sophie  were  lingering  behind 
the  hotel  in  the  arbour  in  the  garden. 

** Above  all,  my  pet,  don't  worry.  The 
war  won't  last  long  as  the  taxes.  When 
the  play  is  played  out,  I  shall  fall  on  my  feet 
and  get  a  good  job.  You  see  what  fine  friends 
I  have.  Don't  be  scared.  The  Boches  won't 
get  me.  In  the  first  place,  Papa  Charles  is  an 
ace;  and  besides,  he's  a  lucky  dog.  Me,  too." 
Sophie  believed  in  him.  He  was  no  longer 
tlie  common,  bumptious  kid,  her  rather  vul- 
gar comrade  of  Montmartre,  her  noisy  escort 
on  suburban  Sundays,  grumbling  because  he 
had  to  carry  the  crochet-bag  of  lunch.  War 
had  transformed  him.  He  had  gained  in 
dignity  and  manliness,  and  had  acquired  a 
determined  carriage,  vigorous  and  erect.  He 
was  strong;  he  was  handsome;  he  had  fulfilled 
her  dream  of  him,  and  she  seemed  to  herself 
a  very  poor  little  thing  beside  his  splendour. 
"My  husband — you  are  my  husband  now!" 
"Little  wife! — Little,  little  wife!" 
Her  fingers  played  with  his  hair. 

4c  «  *  *  *  4e     ,  4: 

[87] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

A  tremendous  explosion  shook  the  air. 

"The  380's  over  Nancy!" 

A  shell  had  knocked  out  the  front  of  the 
hotel,  so  that  from  top  to  bottom,  the  rooms 
were  entirely  disclosed.  Firemen  with  hatch- 
ets, soldiers  with  torches,  ran  about  in  the 
ruins,  mingling  with  the  guests  of  the  hotel, 
who  had  been  caught  in  their  night  clothes. 
"Mama  Chignole"  had  found  her  children 
unharmed,  like  herself.  On  the  first  floor 
M.  Bassinet  in  his  drawers,  but  with  his 
glazed  hat  shoved  firmly  down  on  his  ears, 
held  up  a  sheet  before  Madame  Bassinet,  to 
hide  her  scanty  apparel  from  the  crowd. 

"The  Kaiser  must  have  heard  we  were 
spending  the  night  here." 

As  for  M.  Fondu,  he  had  tumbled  down- 
stairs into  the  cellar,  and  awaited  the  turn 
of  events  at  the  bottom  of  a  trunk. 

V.      FIRE 

The  railroad  station  at  Nancy.  Before 
the  ticket  window,  M.  Bassinet  passing  his 
retinue  in  review. 

,[88] 


The  Climbers 

"Come,  come,  children!  No  sadness!  Self- 
control's  the  word!  Take  pattern  by  yours 
truly.  What  if  last  night  we  experienced 
unpleasant  sensations!  Nevertheless,  what 
glory  for  us — civilians!  Ah,  ah!  Think 
of  the  tales  I  shall  tell  my  cronies  in  town! 
And  the  absolute  proofs  I  can  produce,  of 
the  truth  of  what  I  tell  them!"  He  drew 
from  the  depths  of  his  vest  pocket  a  piece  of  a 
shell. 

"You  must  have  it  mounted  as  a  cravat 
pin.  Father-in-law." 

"I  also  can  show  proofs,"  murmured  the 
plaintive  M.  Fondu  mournfully  displaying 
his  stovepipe  hat  reduced  to  an  accordion. 

"Step  lively,  please,"  said  a  guard. 

The  Paris  express  at  half-past  stvtn  in  the 
morning. 

"Let's  choose  a  compartment  well  toward 
the  middle  of  the  car,  between  the  trucks. 
Get  in  first,  Sophie,  so  we  can  hand  you  the 
bundles.  Oh,  little  daughter,  little  daughter 
— but  you  are  absent-minded  this  morning! 

[891 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

However,  everybody  understands!"  added 
M.  Bassinet,  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
At  the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  good  man  had 
Httle  desire  to  laugh,  but  he  knew  he  must  be 
diverting,  or  the  parting  would  be  gloomy. 

"Monsieur  Papa  Charles,  you  won't  forget 
to  give  my  regards  to  your  captain  and  your 
comrades,  especially  Messieurs  Flagada  and 
Frangipane.  However,  I  shall  come  back. 
When  I  am  with  you  I  feel  young  again. 
Great  guns!  I  could  almost  believe  that  I 
also — ^yes,  even  I — belonged  to  the  aviation 
corps  and  that  I  was  going  to  smack  their 
dirty  mugs!" 

During  this  harangue,  Chignole  had  sur- 
reptitiously joined  Sophie  in  the  compart- 
ment. They  smiled  at  each  other;  and  held 
back  their  tears  for  each  other's  sake. 

"You'll  write  me  often?'* 

"Yes,  Sophie." 

"Everyday?" 

"Every  day." 

"You'll  be  careful?" 

Chignole  hesitated. 

[90] 


The  Climbers 

"He'll  be  prudent,  dear  little  Madame,  I 
promise  you,"  declared  Papa  Charles,  putting 
in  his  head  at  the  window. 

Madame  Bassinet  and  "Mama  Chignole" 
pretended  to  follow  M.  Bassinet's  patriotic 
discourse  religiously,  but  in  reality  they  did 
not  hear  him  at  all.  They  felt  frightfully 
alone,  shut  up  within  themselves. 

Sophie  no  longer  belongs  to  you,  Madame 
Bassinet,  but  to  this  young  man  who  loves 
her  and  who  involuntarily  already  makes 
her  suffer,  since  he  must  stay  here,  and  she 
must  leave  him. 

And  you,  "Mama  Chignole,"  already  wid- 
owed, henceforth  you  will  have  no  child. 
You  have  given  your  son  twenty  years  of  your 
life,  the  most  beautiful  years;  you  even  gave 
up  the  idea  of  marrying  again,  for  his  sake,  and 
now  his  heart  turns  first  to  Sophie.  He  be- 
longs to  his  wife  and  to  the  war.  What  of  your 
share  in  him,  paid  for  by  your  toil,  your  unhap- 
piness,  your  self-sacrifice?  Shut  up  in  them- 
selves they  felt  frightfully  alone,  and  they  drew 
close  together — two  poor  forlorn  old  women. 
[91] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"All  aboard!'*  Doors  slammed;  there 
were  cries,  whistles,  the  noise  of  escaping 
steam,  waving  of  handkerchiefs,  good-byes. 
Then  a  great  silence  beneath  the  station's 
smoky  canopy.  Yonder,  where  the  rails 
seem  to  join,  an  indistinct  mass  diminishes, 
fades,  and  disappears  around  the  first  turn. 

In  the  motor-car  which  is  taking  them 
back  to  the  plateau.  Papa  Charles  respects 
Chignole's  silence.  The  fields  of  rye,  be- 
neath the  wind,  look  like  the  sea  in  autumn, 
silver-green.  In  the  blossoming  hedges  but- 
terflies, giddy  with  sunshine,  rest  heavily  on 
the  flower-petals.  Large  stones,  where  lizards 
are  sunning  themselves,  seem  encrusted  with 
emeralds.  Water  runs  through  the  trembling 
grass.  It  is  as  if  they  tasted  and  savoured 
the  life  of  every  living  thing,  breathing  in  the 
summer  with  all  their  strength,  as  if  it  were 
a  heavy  perfume. 

"Your  turn  on  patrol,"  said  the  secretary 
when  they  got  back  to  the  escadrille. 

"So  much  the  better." 

Occupation,  work,  that's  the  antidote  for 
[92] 


The  Climbers 

homesickness.  Hardly  had  they  come  up 
to  their  biplane  when  Chignole  began  to  call: 

**MimiIe!  Mimile!  I  bet  that  blockhead 
is  still  lying  out  on  the  grass,  gazing  up  into 
the  trees.  Will  you  look  at  the  mill!  Cov- 
ered with  oil !     Mimile ! " 

"You  know  very  well  that  he  went  up 
with  me  yesterday." 

"What  of  that?  Would  it  break  his  back 
to  give  it  a  brushing  up?  One  more  lazy- 
bones born  on  a  Sunday.  FU  give  him  a 
piece  of  my  mind.  I  don't  get  up  in  a  'bus 
in  that  condition." 

"Yes,  you  do.  Listen:  the  train  for  Paris 
stops  at  the  Frouard  station  some  little  time, 
to  punch  the  tickets.  Well — during  our 
patrol — an  easy  loop— and  whoop!  We'll 
dive  over  them  and  give  them  a  surprise." 

"Papa  Charles,  you're  an  ace  of  aces!" 


M.  Bassinet  had  substituted  carpet  slippers 
for  his  boots.  "Come,  make  yourselves 
comfortable!     Ma 'me    Bassinet,    don't   you 

(93] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"*  want  to  take  off  your  corsets  ? — No  ?    I  won't 

insist,  but  you  don't  know  how  to  travel. 
Fondu,  suppose  you  take  advantage  of  the 
stop  to  give  me  the  basket." 

"You're  going  to  begin  to  eat  already?" 
**Ma'me  Bassinet,  when  we  eat  we  don't 
think;  it's  always  that  way." 

Sophie  had  not  taken  her  eyes  from  the 
plateau  at  the  foot  of  which  the  'train  had 
halted^^] 

"There  they  are!    There  they  are!" 
"What!     Who!"  cried  M.  Bassinet  with 
his  mouth  full  and  a  wine  bottle  between  his 
knees. 

An  airplane  rose,  went  down  again,  turned 
in  graceful  evolutions.  With  one  bound, 
M.  Bassinet  was  at  the  door:  "It's  them! 
It's  them,  sure  enough  1  I  can  make  out  the 
figure  on  their  cockpit."  (Every  head  went 
out  of  the  window.)  "Yes,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen," he  explained  to  the  neighbouring 
compartments,  "it's  my  son-in-law  and  his 
boss.  In  other  words,  two  aces,  up  there, 
giving  you  this  grand,  free  exhibition." 

[94] 


The  Climbers 

There  was  a  cry  of  horror. 

"Don't  look,  little  daughter;  don't  look," 
shouted  M.  Bassinet,  covering  Sophie's  face 
with  his  hands. 

The  biplane  was  crashing  down  in  flames. 

•F  ^  5|>  3|C  3|C  3|C  3|» 

The  sun,  already  high  above  the  horizon, 
heated  the  strata  of  air  unequally,  and  be- 
sides, the  biplane  was  very  unsteady  as  there 
was  almost  no  wind. 

^'Wouldn't  this  jar  you!" 

*'See  her  toboggan!" 

With  no  air  to  hold  up  its  wings,  the  ma- 
chine fell  straight  down  like  a  stone,  and 
grazed  the  bell-tower  of  Dommartemont. 

"You  must  acknowledge.  Papa  Charles, 
that  that's  no  way  to  enter  a  church." 

Papa  Charles,  by  light,  combined  move- 
ments of  ioy-stick  and  rudder-bar,  subdued 
the  restive  bird  as  a  horseman  alternately 
pulls  on  the  bit  and  gives  the  horse  his  head. 

"Happily  the  engine's  holding  out.  But 
for  that  we  should  go  head  over  heels,  and 
then  what!" 

[95] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"Five  hundred  metres — it's  working.  We'll 
push  toward  the  lines  to  see  if  there  are  any 
Boches  reported — then  half  a  turn — and  we'll 
make  for  Frouard/' 

"As  you  hke.  But  do  you  think  we'll 
catch  their  train?" 

"You  don't  allow  for  the  fact  that  we  are 
frisking  along  at  one  hundred  and  thirty  an 
hour,  M.  Chignole." 

A  road  over  which  vehicles  creep.  A  vil- 
lage of  ruined  houses.  A  mangled  forest. 
Fields  torn  by  shells  which  have  turned  up 
from  the  depths  of  the  earth  a  bright  clay 
whose  colour  glares  sharply  against  the  uni- 
form brown  of  the  soil.  Before  them,  at 
their  level,  four  white  pufF  balls  bloom  and 
burst.  Chignole  examines  the  sector  care- 
fully with  his  field-glass. 

"Nothing  in  sight.  Still,  let's  examine 
that  little  bundle  of  filth  over  there." 

They    dive   toward   a   black    cloud    with 

copper-coloured  edges  which  spread  over  the 

blue.     They  turn  around  it,  fly  over  it,  then, 

letting  themselves  fall  into  the  very  middle  of 

[96] 


The  Climbers 

it,  they  go  through  it  from  one  side  to  the 
other. 

''Empty  as  an  open  purse!' 

Next,  with  the  wind  at  their  backs,  they 
return  above  Nancy.  The  fortress  of  Frouard 
traces  upon  the  surrounding  forest  the  regular 
star  of  its  fortifications,  like  a  seal  in  soft 
wax.  The  shining  parallel  rails  follow  the 
windings  of  the  river.  The  train  has  stopped 
at  the  little  station. 

**  Do  we  go  down  ? " 

"Sure!  We  want  them  to  know  it's 
really  us." 

The  earth  approaches.  The  train  grows 
larger. 

"Go  to  it,  old  chap!     Do  your  prettiest!" 

The  biplane  noses  up,  makes  a  loop,  then 
glides  easily  on  one  wing.  They  see  hand- 
kerchiefs and  hats  waving  along  the  length 
of  the  train. 

"I  say,  Chignole,  they're  in  the  fourth 
car,  aren't  they?" 

1:^0  answer. 

/*  You  might  speak  when  you're  spoken  to." 
[97] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Papa  Charles  looks  round,  but  sees  Chignole's 
feet  where  his  face  should  be,  for  he  is  lying 
flat  on  his  stomach  in  the  cockpit,  his  head 
hidden  among  the  cylinders. 

** What's  happened?" 

Chignole  comes  to  his  knees,  his  nose 
sniffing  the  air  uneasily.  **It  may  be  only 
a  notion,  but  it  smells  Hke  something 
burning." 

The  words  are  not  out  of  his  mouth  when 
a  white  jet  of  flame  spurts  from  the  engine 
and  licks  at  the  upper  plane. 

Fire!  Their  throats  contract,  their  eyes 
start,  their  hands  clench.  Fire!  A  vision 
of  horror,  wakened  by  memories!  Fire! 
To  fall  like  a  torch! — to  explode  like  a  comet! 
Fire !  Comrades  roasted ;  the  flames  contend- 
ing for  them  in  the  midst  of  charred  rubbish, 
with  the  oil  and  the  burning  petrol  pouring 
over  them,  from  the  staved-in  tanks.  Fir^l 
Fire! 

Papa  Charles  plays  his  last  trick.  He 
closes  the  petrol  and  blocks  the  gas  throttle 
to  the  last  notch,  trying  in  this  way  by  a 
[98] 


The  Climbers 

violent  inhalation,  at  one  breath  to  exhaust 
the  petrol  from  the  cylinders  and  to  hinder 
the  fire. 

"Nothing  doing.  It's  a  rubber  pipe  for 
carrying  the  oil  that  has  slipped;  and  the 
exhaust  has  fired  it.*' 

The  flame,  waving  and  spreading  nimbly, 
licks  the  flippers  and  the  elevator,  whose 
linen  is  beginning  to  peel  off.  Papa  Charles 
prefers  a  smash  to  a  bonfire.  He  pushes  the 
rudder-bar  as  far  to  one  side  as  it  will  go  and 
pushes  the  control-stick  to  the  opposite 
side.  There  is  a  glissade,  the  biplane  drops 
over  the  wood  like  a  meteor.  There  is  a 
crash,  an  explosion,  a  series  of  bumps;  then — 
silence. 

Papa  Charles  opens  his  eyes,  which  he  had 
closed  in  terror.  He  is  astride  the  upper 
branch  of  a  pine.  Beside  him,  Chignole, 
suspended  by  the  slack  of  his  trousers, 
waggles  his  arms  and  legs  as  if  swimming. 
Below  them,  their  machine  is  burning 
up. 

"Well!— She  flew!" 

(99] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

**Ah,  Papa  Charles,  now  I  know  there's  a 
good  God!'* 


On  the  station  platform,  after  a  moment 
of  stupor,  the  travellers  gaze  compassion- 
ately at  the  Bassinets.  "Mama"  Chignole 
and  Madame  Bassinet  have  put  aside  their 
own  grief  to  care  for  Sophie  whose  fixed 
eyes  betray  her  anguish  of  mind.  M.  Fondu 
turns  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  murmurs  dis- 
connected words.  M.  Bassinet  had  cursed 
high  heaven,  but  now  he  is  weeping  heavily, 
noisily,  as  men  weep  who  are  unused  to  tears. 

"All  aboard!  All  aboard!  No  one  can 
stay  here!  Military  territory!"  cry  the  mili- 
tary police. 

They  get  back  into  their  compartments 
mechanically,  like  herded  cattle.  But  while 
the  train  puffs,  an  automobile  comes  up  with 
a  rush.  Flagada  is  driving,  and  beside  him 
Frangipane,  standing  up,  crazy  with  joy, 
flourishes  his  hat. 

"They're  all  right!    They're  saved!" 
[  loo] 


The  Climbers 

Everybody  embraces  everybody  else,  and 
M.  Bassinet,  with  tears  still  undried,  begins 
to  scold  his  party. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you.     I  told  you 
they'd  come  out  right  side  up." 
,    "Yes,  yes;  how  foolish  of  us  to  cry!"  sobs 
M.  Fondu. 


[loi] 


III 

EXIT  FLAGADA 

I.       CHIGNOLE  TO  THE   RESCUE 

GILDED  insects  danced  In  the  sun- 
beams that  filtered  through  the  pine 
needles.  A  bee  heavy  with  pollen 
plunged  deep  into  a  flower-cup,  setting  the 
blossom  a-nod  on  its  delicate  stem.  Papa 
Charles  and  Flagada  were  asleep  on  the  damp 
hot  sand,  with  their  caps  over  their  faces  to 
keep  out  the  light.  Frangipane,  bare-headed, 
was  doing  his  hundred  paces  "as  at  Deau- 
ville.'*  Chignole,  lying  on  his  stomach, 
propped  on  one  elbow,  drew  cabalistic  signs 
with  the  end  of  his  hazel  switch.  The 
high  notes  of  a  distant  clarion  woke  the 
sleepers. 

"That's  not  for  us.     It's  the  assembly  for 
[102] 


Exit  Flagada 

the  machine-gun  rookies.  You  can  go  on 
napping,  Papa  Charles.*' 

"You  think "  yawned  Flagada. 

"This  place  gets  my  goat!  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  at  the  movies!  Who  would  have  sup- 
posed that  in  one  day  we  should  be  blown 
from  the  front  to  the  extreme  rear — from 
Nancy  to  the  School  of  Aerial  Gunnery, 
at  Cazau,  in  the  Gironde!" 

"The  surprises  of  a  military  life." 

"Oh,  what  a  place!  What  a  change 
from  out  yonder!  It  turns  this  month's 
practice  into  a  sort  of  holiday,  a  shooting 
leave." 

"'  The  wind,  very  soft,  stirred  the  spicy  frag- 
rance of  fresh  pine  gum  and  dried  heather, 
mingled  with  the  sharp,  salty  smell  of  the 
neighbouring  sea.  The  aviators,  accustomed 
to  the  harsh  climate  of  the  Vosges,  revelled 
in  the  happy  languor  of  their  deliciously 
sleepy  senses. 

"Sunday,  if  we're  free,  I'll  take  you  to 
Cap-Ferret,"  said  Frangipane.     "I  know  a 
place  there  where  the  oysters  are  a  marvel, 
(103] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

We'll  hire  a  little  boat,  and  if  there's  time, 
we'll  go  down  to  the  ocean." 

"At  last  I  shall  see  the  sea!'*  Chignole 
heaved  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

''And  at  Cannes,  at  Nice,  when  you  were 
in  hospital,  I  suppose  it  was  the  Seine  that 
you  saw  from  the  beach?" 

"You  think  you're  funny!"  Chignole 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Well,  yes;  I  insist; 
that's  not  really  the  sea,  that  Mediterranean! 
It's  blue!  It  might  be  the  sky.  And  flat! 
Oh,  it  was  so  still  it  got  on  my  nerves." 

"Here's  somebody  else  complaining  that 
the  sea's  too  beautiful." 

In  single  file,  along  the  narrow  footpath, 
they  made  their  way  toward  the  School. 
Chignole  loitered,  picking  green  mulberries 
and  scratching  his  hands  on  brambles  to 
gather  the  honeysuckle  whose  vines  overran 
the  thicket.  He  gazed  with  astonished  eyes 
at  all  this  nature  spread  out  before  him,  for 
it  was  new  to  him;  but  he  did  not  enjoy  con- 
fessing his  own  ignorance  and  discovering 
how  like  he  was  to  everybody  else. 
[104] 


Exit  Flagada 

At  the  wharf  near  which  the  hydroplanes 
were  docked  they  found  the  machines  resting 
on  the  flat,  shining  surface  of  the  pond  like 
birds  which  had  forgotten  to  close  their 
white  wings.  Papa  Charles  was  assigned 
to  one  as  pilot;  Chignole  practised  bursting 
target-balloons  with  a  machine  gun  fitted 
with  a  new  kind  of  collimator. 

"Hi,  old  son!  This  isn't  our  old  family 
Voisin !  It's  the  hen-coop,  the  Maurice 
Farman,  the  M.  F."* 

In  the  cockpit  the  places  were  reversed. 
Chignole,  in  front,  turned  the  gun  on  its 
tripod  to  test  its  field  of  fire.  Papa  Charles, 
behind  him,  was  getting  used  to  the  new 
controls.  The  rudder-bar  was  replaced  by 
pedals,  and  the  joy-stick  by  a  horizontal  bar 
with  handles. 

When  the  screw  was  cranked,  the  biplane 
slid,  at  a  slow  pace,  on  her  pontoons  and  left 
the  dock.  Papa  Charles  gave  her  the  gas 
and  pulled  the  control  imperceptibly  toward 
him;  the  wing  pontoons  left  the  water;  the  tail 

•Pronounced  Mefe. 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

pontoons  brushed  the  surface  a  moment  then 
left  it. 

"She's  off!" 

"Not  bad  sport,  playing  we're  ducks." 
As  they  went  up,  they  could  see  below 
them  the  pond,  like  molten  metal,  ringed 
round  by  the  unbroken  green  of  the  heath. 
On  the  right,  a  narrow  isthmus  of  gray  downs 
and  the  infinite  ocean;  before  them,  another 
pond,  the  one  near  Biscarrosse  and  Parentis; 
on  the  left,  the  pine  forest,  dotted  with  glades 
in  which  were  hidden  the  low  hovels  of  the. 
rosin  gatherers.  A  quiet,  sleepy  panorama. 
Chignole,  contemplating  it,  understood  per- 
haps for  the  first  time  that  although  he  was 
fighting  for  France,  for  a  principle,  he  was 
also  fighting  for  himself.  At  Nancy,  he  had 
flown  over  houses,  factories,  each  one  with 
its  owner;  the  trenches  belonged  to  no  one; 
Lorraine  was  still  in  the  enemy's  hands. 
Then,  he  had  been  fighting  to  keep  or  to  get 
back  things  which  didn't  belong  to  him  per- 
sonally, and  never  would.  But  this  forest, 
this  heath,  these  blossomy  fields,  all  this 
[io6] 


Exit  Flagada 

belonged  to  every  Frenchman,  this  was  his 
own;  here  he  had  his  share  in  earth  and  water 
and  sunshine;  here  he  had  his  share  in  hberty 
and  happiness,  and  all  of  a  sudden,  he — ^the 
Chignole  without  a  penny  to  his  name — 
seemed  to  himself  immensely  rich. 

"And  all  that  might  be  taken  by  the 
Boches,  or  come  under  Boche  rule!  Ah  ha! 
WiUiam,  you  old  bandit,  you  want  too 
much!  Varmint!'*  And  to  appease  his 
wrath  he  fired  furiously  at  the  balloons. 

"I  say! — this  side;  do  you  see  it? — ^the 
sea."  It  glittered  like  a  silver  breastplate, 
yet  its  soft,  silky  folds  clung  to  the  curves  of 
the  coast,  crept  into  the  coves,  hooded  the 
capes,  twined  round  the  islands.  Papa 
Charles,  hypnotized  by  the  deep  roar  of 
the  machine  alive  to  his  whim,  and  drunk 
with  the  azure  and  the  wind,  had  foolish 
longings  to  head  toward  the  dim  line  that 
marked  the  meeting  of  sky  and  water. 

**Are  you  bound  for  America?"  Chignole 
inquired,  surprised  at  the  direction  of  the 
machine. 

[107] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Papa  Charles,  brought  back  to  reality, 
pressed  upon  one  of  the  pedals.  The  docile 
biplane  obeyed,  skirted  the  coast,  and  entered 
the  bay  of  Arcachon.  The  sand  banks 
cast  brown  shadows  into  the  transparent 
water.  Along  the  shores,  villas  nestled,  lost 
in  the  mimosas  and  the  fig  trees,  and  pro- 
tected by  palisades  and  thick  walls.  Papa 
Charles  recalled  the  town  of  the  winter  before 
the  war,  the  sad  shadows  of  consumptives 
in  bright-coloured  woollens  which  accented 
their  leanness  and  their  pallor;  the  look  of 
hopeless  illness  lurking  in  every  eye,  exhaling 
at  every  breath.  Oh,  better  far  this  death 
he  faced,  this  death  he  chose  to  die,  than 
that  other  awaiting  behind  the  disease  which 
consumes  the  lungs,  taints  the  blood,  brands 
the  flesh.  At  least,  when  he  died,  he  would 
go  out  in  health — ^whole,  strong,  and  beauti- 
ful. 

Chignole  was  still  looking  through  his 
field  glasses. 

*What  are  you  hunting  for?" 

^They're  always  talking  about  the  oysters 
[io8] 


Exit  Flagada 

of  Arcachon;  I*m  looking  to  see  if  I  can  see 
any/' 

Suddenly  the  sun  disappeared  behind  a 
bank  of  dark  clouds;  the  wind  freshened. 
Papa  Charles  turned  the  plane  and  dived 
toward  Cazau  at  full  speed.  Black  balls 
were  climbing  the  halyards  of  the  semaphore. 
The  pond  was  crinkling  into  a  thousand 
wrinkles. 

"That  means  a  squall— Shall  we  have 
time  to  dock  before  it  catches  us  ? " 

The  farther  down  they  came,  the  rougher 
the  waves  looked.  Papa  Charles  nosed  up 
to  steady  the  machine;  as  he  Hghted,  the 
pontoon  of  one  wing  was  hooked  by  a  reed; 
the  biplane  spun  on  its  nose  and  turned 
completely  over,  tipping  out  its  passengers. 
Chignole  found  himself  at  the  bottom  of  the 
pond. 

"Here  you  are!  Ho,  for  a  life  preserver. 
I  sha'n't  miss  a  thing  in  this  war!"  Striking 
out  from  the  thigh,  he  rose  to  the  surface, 
and  seized  hold  of  a  sort  of  shapeless  rag 
that  swept  through  his  fingers.  He  pulled 
[109  J 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

it  to  him  just  as  it  was  vanishing.  It  was 
the  hair  of  Papa  Charles,  half-drowned  al- 
ready and  about  to  go  down. 

In  the  motor  boat  manned  by  Frangipane 
and  Flagada,  which  was  the  first  to  arrive  at 
the  scene  of  the  accident,  Papa  Charles  came 
to  his  senses,  thanks  to  the  vigorous  measures 
of  Chignole  who  almost  pulled  out  his  tongue, 
under  the  pretext  of  restoring  his  circulation. 

"It's  worth  while  having  hair.  Papa  Charles 
— ^what!  If  you'd  been  bald,  you'd  be  at 
the  bottom  now!" 

II.       CHIGNOLE   HAS  THE    BLUES 

Chignole  and  Flagada  left  the  office  of  the 
sergeant-major,  caps  tilted  on  one  ear,  each 
waving  a  piece  of  paper. 

"Here  you  are!  Leave!  Twenty-four 
hours  granted  for  family  affairs.  The  Cap'n 
fell  for  it." 

"Flagada!'* 

Papa  Charles  and  Frangipane  regarded 
the  toes  of  their  boots  with  gloom,  and  sighed 
dolefully. 

[no] 


I 


Exit  Flagada 

"No,  but  joking  aside,*'  Chignole  con- 
tinued, "do  you  really  think  we'd  leave  you 
out? — that  Flagada  and  I  would  go  on  a  bat 
to  Bordeaux  without  you?  Not  on  your 
life!    The  question  is  how  to  work  it." 

"The  secret  session  is  open;  let  us  deliber- 
ate," announced  Papa  Charles,  pompously. 

Seated  on  the  sand,  they  wasted  no 
thought  upon  the  magic  of  the  rosy  hour 
which  was  setting  the  pines  ablaze  and  the 
pond  a-sparkle,  but  industriously  searched 
their  wits  for  some  scheme  clever  enough  to 
bring  them  a  free  day. 

"I  advise  prudence,"  Frangipane  warned 
them  lightly,  "for  they  have  their  eye  on 


us." 


Chignole  sucked  long  on  a  piece  of  grass 
plucked  from  the  edge  of  a  ditch,  scratched 
the  earth,  sniffed,  then  made  up  his  mind: 

"It's  not  worth  while  looking  for  noon  at 
two  o'clock.  The  stunt  is  to  hump  ourselves 
so  we  sha'n't  miss  the  ten  o'clock  train. 
You  must  look  pale;  the  doctor  will  excuse 
you  from  service,  that's  the  main  thing. 
[ml 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Nobody'll  come  snooping  round  our  quarters 
to  see  if  we're  there,  and  we'll  vanish." 

Papa  Charles  and  Frangipane  turned  their 
steps  toward  the  infirmary.  The  head  sur- 
geon was  a  suspicious,  asthmatic  old  man  who 
saw  in  every  aviator  a  dangerous  rival  in  the 
affections  of  the  little  chambermaids  of  the 
Hotel  de  la  Gare,  and  an  incorrigible  idler. 
Hence,  he  fixed  the  two  cronies  with  an  in- 
quisitorial eyeglass. 

Papa  Charles,  completely  master  of  him- 
self, enumerated  his  wounds  "which  the  sea 
air  irritated,"  and  described  his  falls  with 
the  detail  of  a  newspaper  reporter  filling  a 
column.  His  voice  trembled;  he  was  over- 
come; he  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  The 
Major  stopped  him,  convinced. 

But  Frangipane  came  up  with  his  habitual 
swagger  and  his  quizzical  smile,  and  the 
countenance  of  his  interlocutor  darkened  at 
once. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Heavens,  Doctor,  how  should  I  know? 
To  be  quite  frank,  there  are  no  symptoms  of 

[112] 


Exit  Flagada 

acute  illness;  it's  a  general  discomfort,  which 
seems  to  call  for  sick  leave/'  And  to  carry 
conviction,  he  put  out  his  tongue  which  he 
had  previously  rubbed  with  chalk. 

The  doctor  saw  through  the  ruse,  but  the 
Croix  de  Guerre  made  an  impression  on  him. 
He  wanted  to  show  that  he  was  a  good  sort, 
but  nobody's  fool. 

"Sick  leave  granted,  but  I  prescribe  a 
purge  for  you;  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  why 
your  tongue  is  coated — coated  white.  Don't 
go  yet.  Orderly;  castor  oil.  Wait!  Wait! 
Fm  going  to  give  it  to  you  myself." 

The  wretch,  horror-struck,  swallowed  a 
full  glass,  rolling  the  whites  of  his  eyes,  while 
the  doctor  emitted  sharp  little  grunts — his 
way  of  laughing. 

An  hour  later  the  express  bore  them 
away.  Frangipane,  livid,  collapsed  in  a 
corner,  one  hand  on  his  stomach. 

A  good  breakfast  in  Bordeaux  set  him  on 
his  feet.  Arm  in  arm,  Hke  sailors  ashore, 
the  gay  fellows  strolled  along  the  quays 
smoking  huge  cigars  which  the  proprietor 

[113] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

of  the  restaurant,  won  by  their  charm,  had 
insisted  upon  bestowing  on  them. 

The  Port — Shops  where  all  sorts  of  things, 
which  Chignole  had  never  seen  before,  were 
sold.  Buoys,  rigging,  oiled  hats.  Dark 
public  houses  smelling  of  tar  and  alcohol. 
Strange,  tough-skinned  characters  with  in- 
nocent eyes  and  evil  mouths.  A  great  river, 
a  forest  of  masts,  chimneys,  and  cranes. 
And  that  atmosphere  peculiar  to  maritime 
cities,  swept  by  the  wind  of  perpetual  de- 
partures into  the  unknown. 

They  stopped  short  before  the  poster  of  a 
music-hall. 


SKY-LIFE! 
Grand  Review  in  two  acts  and  thirty  tableaux. 


"'Sky-life!'— It's  about  aviation!" 
"To-day's    Sunday;    there's    a    matinee; 
our  presence  here  is  plainly  indicated." 

Their    entrance    into    a    proscenium    box 
caused  a  lively  sensation.     They  were  good 
to  look  at,  our  aces,  with  their  fantastic 
[114] 


Exit  Flagada 

uniforms,  their  decorations,  and  their  chev- 
rons. The  people  at  Bordeaux  don't  often 
have  aviators  within  their  walls,  so  they  were 
the  object  of  noisy  and  affectionate  curiosity. 

"How  well  set  up  they  are!" 

"Have  they  palms?" 

"Poor  young  men!  Still,  we  mustn't  spoil 
them  too  much." 

Proud  of  their  success,  they  swaggered. 
Chignole  could  not  capture  enough  smiles  and 
little  attentions.  Flagada  realized  that  he  had 
never  awakened  such  enthusiasm  as  a  come- 
dian. Frangipane,  the  aristocrat,  acknow- 
ledged that  "the  people"  have  some  good  in 
them.  Papa  Charles,  though  really  touched, 
feigned  indifference;  it  was  more  distinguished. 

At  the  finale,  a  lively  old  lady  threw  them 
a  bouquet  with  a  flourish.  This  let  loose  a 
regular  ovation.  The  Marseillaise;  flowers; 
they  were  borne  off  in  triumph.  In  the 
lobby  there  were  speeches,  champagne, 
embraces.     Ah,  the  Midi! 

Later,  on  a  bench  in  the  park,  their  light- 
headedness evaporated  little  by  little.    They 

[IIS] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

had  tasted  the  strong  wine  of  popularity, 
and  they  came  to  their  senses  ashamed  of  their 
silly  intoxication. 

Ah!  behind  the  lines! — the  poor  joys  of  the 
rear,  ignoble  when  they  are  not  empty. 
Their  thoughts  reverted  to  their  comrades 
going  upon  patrol  at  the  front,  in  a  stormy 
sky,  at  that  marvellous  sport,  aerial  war, 
whose  motto  is:  "Thrills — then  carry  on — 
and  keep  grinning." 

Meanwhile,  each  one  was  feeling  anew 
the  slow  grip  of  the  thousand  and  one  ties 
of  his  life,  which  the  war  had  strained  but  not 
broken,  and  which  the  briefest  return  to  the 
rear  tightened  again. 

Frangipane  saw  once  more  the  cradle  of  his 
race  in  Beaugency,  crowned  by  the  old 
feudal  tower  whose  scars  were  hidden  by 
lichen.  His  ancestors,  small  provincial 
nobles,  had  gone  out  from  it  to  secure  posts 
at  court: 

Orleans,  Beaugency, 
Notre-Dame  de  Clery, 
Vendome — ^Vendome. 
("6] 


Exit  Flagada 

The  popular  refrain  of  romantic  comedy 
hummed  in  his  ears. 

Flagada  felt  once  again  the  obsession  of  the 
theatre,  the  boards,  the  auditorium.  He 
seemed  to  breathe  the  stale  smell  of  the  wings, 
the  mouldiness  and  paint;  he  grew  sentimen- 
tal thinking  how  ridiculously  he  used  to  dress 
to  play  the  part  of  a  solemn  necromancer. 

Papa  Charles  mused  on  his  existence  before 
the  war:  flirtations  and  the  tango,  winters 
at  Davos,  springs  at  Cairo,  summers  at  Ca- 
bourg  and  autumns  at  Ravenna.  Bobsleighs, 
latticed  windows,  tennis,  and  the  mandolin. 
His  dream  called  up  profiles,  silhouettes; 
hair  in  caressing  curls,  eyes  that  promised, 
hands  that  beckoned.  Now  that  he  looked 
back  upon  himself  through  the  perspective 
of  time,  whose  worth  he  should  understand 
henceforth,  he  could  see  how  he  might  sur- 
round himself  with  a  voluptuous  and  soft  life 
of  visions  and  rare  sensations.  Ah,  how  he 
could  dream,  love,  and  be  beloved,  if  he  were 
sure  of  not  dying! 

And  Chignole's  thoughts  turned  to  Sophie. 
[117I 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

He  tried  to  struggle  against  the  spell,  for 
well  he  knew  that  if  he  once  allowed  the 
image  of  his  wife  to  come  between  him  and 
his  duty,  he  could  never  fully  accomplish  it, 
try  as  he  might.  A  true  priest  knows  only 
his  God;  a  true  soldier  should  know  only  his 
country.  But  in  fulfilling  the  priestly  office, 
is  it  possible  to  strip  oflF  the  human  envelope 
entirely — to  set  aside  one's  personality,  one's 
ego,  completely — for  the  sake  of  an  idea, 
however  beautiful? 

The  four  friends — so  different  in  intellec- 
tual quality,  in  physical  inheritance,  in  social 
contacts — were  gripped  by  the  same  anguish, 
and  Chignole  summed  up  their  trouble  when 
he  said: 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me — 
it's  a  bore  like  everything  else — but  I  want 
to  cry." 

III.       MONSIEUR    BASSINET   PRACTISES 
PENMANSHIP 

In  his  shirt-sleeves,  seated  at  the  oilcloth- 
covered  table  in  the  porter's  lodge,  M.  Bassi- 
[ii8] 


Exit  Flagada 

net  traced  capital  letters  in  a  copybook, 
drawing  his  inspiration  from  the  copy  set 
at  the  left  of  the  page.  It  was  hard  work  for 
him;  he  was  not  very  clever  at  it;  the  veins 
in  his  forehead  were  swollen  and  his  fingers 
were  stained  with  ink. 

The  tiny  kitchen  was  entirely  filled  with 
Madame  Bassinet  who  was  scouring  the 
bottom  of  a  saucepan  which  she  held  pressed 
against  her  stomach.  "Mama  Chignole"  was 
sitting  near  the  open  window,  using  the  last 
moments  of  daylight  to  begin — or  to  finish, 
one  never  knew  which — her  customary  knit- 
ting. M.  Fondu  slept  over  his  newspaper. 
Sophie  was  sweeping  up  the  crumbs  from  the 
evening  meal. 

"Move  a  little.  Papa,  so  I  can  take  up 
what*s  under  your  feet." 

"Don't  bother  me,  little  daughter,  I*m 
engaged  in  serious  work." 

"Serious  indeed!"  snorted  Madame  Bassi- 
net, edging  sideways  from  among  her  pots 
and  kettles.     "At  your  age! — ^Nothing  better 
to  do  than  to  make  pothooks." 
1 119] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"Ma'me  Bassinet,  to  master  a  subject  one 
must  begin  at  the  beginning," 

"And  what  good  will  it  do  you  ?  Will  your 
customers  tip  you  better  because  you  can 
draw  a  circle?" 

"A  beautiful  handwriting  is  always  worth 
while,"  M.  Fondu  felt  called  unon  to  point 
out,  stirred  by  the  discussion. 

"It's  better  than  going  to  the  saloon," 
smiled  "Mama  Chignole." 

But  Madame  Bassinet  would  have  the 
last  word : 

"Are  you  putting  yourself  to  this  trouble 
to  write  to  your  lady  friends,  your  chorus 
girls?  If  ever  I  catch  you "  She  bran- 
dished her  saucepan  like  a  club. 

"Oh!    Ma 'me    Bassinet!    To    think    me 

capable  of Oh!"  stammered  the  good 

man,  overwhelmed  by  such  a  suspicion. 
And,  in  his  flutter,  he  upset  the  ink  bottle. 

"There  you  go!  Isn't  that  the  limit! 
Get  up,  quick! — before  you  spot  your  trou- 
sers!" 

The  arrival  of  the  postman  put  a  stop  to 
[120] 


Exit  Flagada 

the  recriminations.  Sophie  examined  the 
letters  feverishly;  then — disappointed,  dis- 
tressed, anxious — cried:  "Nothing — still 
nothing.'* 

"It's  a  long  time,"  added  "Mama  Chig- 
nole,"  "a  long  time." 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other 
timidly,  then  their  eyes  went  to  the  picture 
of  Chignole,  in  the  place  of  honour,  over  the 
mantelpiece.  The  young  woman  kept  back 
her  tears  so  as  not  to  make  the  old  one 
cry. 

"What  a  dirty  war  it  is!"  grumbled  Ma- 
dame Bassinet,  who,  this  evening,  had  no 
playful  thoughts. 

"Oh,  do  shut  up!"  retorted  M.  Bassinet. 
"Everybody  to  his  taste,  what!  Funereal 
airs,  and  a  Httle  sob  party  just  because  there 
are  no  letters  from  the  boy!  Do  you  think 
that  he  can  be  always  hatching  nonsense? 
You  saw  him  five  days  ago,  when  he  came 
back  from  Cazau  with  his  boss;  doesn't  that 
satisfy  you?  Do  let  him  breathe.  What 
the  devil! " 

[121] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"Yes,  but  he  went  back  to  Nancy  to  take 
part  in  a  big  raid.'* 

"It's  not  the  first.  Why  shouldn't  he 
have  his  usual  luck?  You'll  end  by  making 
him  ashamed  with  those  Lenten  faces  of 
yours;  won't  they,  Fondu?" 

According  to  his  custom,  M.  Fondu  con- 
tented himself  with  a  silent  laugh,  and  then 
gazed  peacefully  at  his  little  finger  nail  which 
had  been  broken  during  the  bombardment, 
but  was  slowly  growing  again. 

M.  Bassinet  continued  his  writing  under 
the  lamp  now  lighted.  He  was  furious  at 
feeling  this  unhappiness  around  him,  but 
surprised  that  he  could  not  find  more  em- 
phatic words  to  condemn  it. 

"Why  do  I  try  to  argue  the  impossible?  I 
should  make  more  impression  on  them  if  I 
smashed  a  piece  of  china.  Ah,  these  women ! " 
— But  why  was  he  embarrassed  in  their 
presence?  Because  he  was  a  man,  and  at 
home,  while  others  were  at  the  front.  Of 
course,  they  didn't  want  him;  he  was  an  old 
man.     The  most  exacting  could  have  nothing 

[122] 


Exit  Flagada 

against  him;  still  in  women's  eyes  he  read 
scorn  of  his  weakness,  his  age.  He  could  no 
longer  speak  as  a  man;  he  had  no  more 
authority.  Opinions  were  tolerated  only 
from  men  who  could  fight. 

The  summer  night,  thundery  and  hot, 
excited  Sophie  a  little.  She  shivered  over 
her  memories.  Oh,  doubt! — uncertainty! — 
to  tremble  every  time  the  bell  rang!  To 
long  for  the  postman  and  to  dread  his  com- 
ing; to  search  the  faces  of  those  who  might 
know  something,  for  a  betrayal  of  the  truth; 
to  listen  to  the  clock,  whose  tic-tac  fell  upon 
the  silence  drop  by  drop,  like  tears  or  blood. 
"  I  love  him,  I  love  him;  and  we  are  separated  I 
I  need  him,  to  be  happy.  Oh,  to  feel  his 
gentle  strength  once  more.  If  he  should  be 
dying! — if  he  should  be  dead!"  Her  dream 
turned  to  a  nightmare.  Her  hands  clutched 
at  a  fleeing  shape.  How  alone  she  was — 
already;  like  a  widow! 

Madame  Bassinet  tried  to  drown  her  bore- 
dom in  her  dishwater.  She  had  changed  a 
good  deal  since  Sophie's  marriage.  Before, 
I  123  J 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

she  had  had  no  one  in  the  war;  now  she  had 
her  son-in-law.  Suppose  he  didn't  come 
back?  What  would  become  of  her  daughter, 
without  her  husband?  It  was  all  very  well 
to  say  that  it  was  for  France,  that  the  con- 
flict had  not  been  sought  but  had  to  be  carried 
on;  her  little  special  interests,  her  maternal 
egoism  were  stronger  at  times  than  her  pa- 
triotism. 

M.  Fondu  detested  this  war  which  he  had 
never  understood.  At  his  office,  plunged  in 
dusty  accounts,  separated  from  the  world  by 
the  barricade  of  his  ledgers,  he  forgot  it. 
But  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  street,  he  was 
compelled  to  recall  it;  and  with  what  bitter- 
ness! His  autobus  was  gone;  his  crossing  was 
changed;  his  special  tobacco,  too  wet,  was 
ground  less  fine;  his  newspaper  had  only  one 
sheet.  To  conclude;  the  incidents  on  his 
journey  to  Nancy  had  made  a  lively  impres- 
sion on  him.  He  went  to  bed  in  his  clothes, 
with  his  savings  under  the  bolster,  and  the 
horn  of  an  automobile  was  enough  to  send 
him  post  haste  under  the  bed,  for  he  always 
[124] 


Exit  Flagada 

mistook  It  for  the  siren  announcing  the  Zeppe- 
lins. 

"I  have  only  him — I  have  only  him," 
thought  "Mama  Chignole/'  "What  would 
the  future  hold  for  me  if  he  should  be  taken?" 
She  dwelt  in  imagination  upon  her  solitary  and 
wretched  old  age  with  its  two  possible  endings : 
the  almshouse  or  the  bitter  bread  of  charity. 

It  was  a  dull  and  empty  time.  Discour- 
agement and  doubt  gripped  them.  But 
suddenly,  on  the  first  floor,  a  nasal  phono- 
graph began: 

Allans,  enfants  de  la  Patrie  I 
Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive 

The  stirring  music  awakened  their  be- 
numbed senses,  drove  out  materialism  and 
set  free  the  ideal. 

Contre  nous  de  la  tyranniey 
Vetendard  sanglant  est  leve  ! 

In  the  echoing  depths  of  their  hearts  it 
vibrated,    swelled,    and   spread   through    all 
their  being  till  they  felt  suffocated. 
[  125  ] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

M.  Bassinet  rose.  In  the  wardrobe,  from 
under  a  pile  of  napkins,  he  brought  out  a 
beautiful  red  account  book  with  gilt  edges: 

"This  is  why  I  am  learning  to  write  all  over 
again. "  And  he  inscribed  at  the  top  of  the 
first  page:  ** To-day,  I  begin,  for  my  grand- 
children, my  memoires  of  the  Great  War." 


Aux  armes  I  citoyens  ! 
Formez  vos  bataillons  !- 


It  seemed  to  them  that  it  was  Chignole — 
there  on  the  wall,  sitting  in  his  frame — ^who 
was  singing  the  Marseillaise  to  them. 

IV.       CHIGNOLE   JUST  GETS   BY 

The  plateau  was  deserted,  for  the  sun 
blazed  at  the  zenith,  and  the  dry  grass  was 
like  tinder.  The  closed  mess  halls  were 
empty;  the  mechanics  slept  in  the  shade  of 
the  hangars,  and  the  personnel  of  the 
flying  corps  swung  in  hammocks  under  the 
pines. 

A  lonely  aeroplane  was  on  the  field.     Chig- 

[126] 


Exit  Flagada 

nole,  in  his  cockpit,  was  correcting  the  hang 
of  the  compass,  held  by  coil-springs  stretched 
on  hooks.  Mimile,  in  his  blue  overalls,  was 
putting  grease  with  a  spatula  in  the  necks  of 
the  pulleys  over  which  the  controls  slip. 
Papa  Charles,  sheltered  under  one  of  the 
wings,  played  solitaire. 

**Ts  there  luck  in  the  cards.?" 

"Yes;  four  aces,  victory.  I  don't  insist, 
Chignole,  and  above  all  I  wouldn't  hinder 
you;  but  don't  you  think  we'd  be  better  off 
in  the  wood  ? " 

"My!  but  you're  a  lazy  lummox!  There 
you  sit  with  nothing  to  do  but  shuffle  your 
cards;  and  you  complain!  To  hear  you, 
nobody'd  think  that  to-night  we  were  to 
bomb  Treves." 

"Are  you  nervous  ? " 

"But  my  dear  fellow,  it's  some  joy-ride, 
that  burg!  Two  hundred  and  sixty  kilo- 
metres there  and  back,  as  the  crow  flies; 
which  means  four  hundred  with  the  zigzags. 
We  mustn't  let  the  mill  get  rheumatism. 
Hi,  Mimile! — ^what  are  you  up  to.?  Look- 
[127] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

ing  for  short-circuits  in  the  exhaust-cham- 
ber?" 

"I  am  regulating  the  breaking  of  the 
current." 

"Happy  thought!"  And  he  added  to 
Papa  Charles  in  a  low  voice,  "Really,  Mimile 
is  a  good  fellow;  only  he  was  picked  green — 
what?" 

Absorbed  in  his  job,  he  stopped  talking  and 
set  to  work  with  his  tools  and  his  clever 
hands  to  finish  what  he  had  begun.  But 
presently  he  stopped,  wiped  his  forehead,  and 
made  a  magnificent  gesture: 

"No!  It  can't  be  done.  There's  no  way 
of  regulating  this  compass  like  that.  The 
needle  varies  two  degrees  whenever  I  push 
the  control  over  to  that  side.  Let's  put  the 
cuckoo  on  the  table.  Then  it'll  be  as  easy  as 
falHng  off  a  log." 

They  rolled  the  machine  to  the  table  where 
the  cardinal  points  were  drawn  with  lime  on 
the  ground,  and  compensated  the  errors  of 
the  compass  by  adding  metal  weights. 

"With  the  load  we  must  carry  to-night, 
[128] 


Exit  Flagada 

we  shall  weigh   almost   a   kilo.     A   regular 
autobus — ^what  ? " 


The  mess  after  dinner. — Coffee,  liqueurs, 
pipes,  and  cigarettes. 

"Departure:  eleven  o'clock,"  said  the  sec- 
retary, turning  from  the  telephone. 

In  the  face  of  danger,  everyone  behaved 
in  character.  Some  wrote  last  letters,  others 
studied  the  maps.  Frangipane,  at  the  piano, 
sang  a  Venetian  barcarolle,  under  his  breath: 

Gentille  gondoliers 
Dit  le  pecheur  epris, 
Je  cede  a  ta  priere. 
Quel  en  sera  le  prix  ? 


Flagada  repeated  the  monologue  of  Charles 
V.  The  vaudeville  artist,  even  as  he  faced 
the  enemy,  had  not  given  up  hope  of  entering 
the  trrragedy  class  at  the  Conservatory. 

Papa  Charles  made  a  methodical  inventory 
of  the  contents  of  his  pockets  and  destroyed 
personal  papers.  Chignole  filled  a  thermos 
[129  J 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

bottle  with  a  hot,  spicy  beverage:  "The 
nights  are  sharp,  even  in  June;  and  besides, 
I  don't  want  to  go  thirsty." 

Watches  were  feverishly  consulted,  and  to 
cheat  suspense,  they  fell  asleep,  all  dressed, 
on  the  seat-straps.  The  hours  passed.  A 
motor  crossed  the  plateau,  bringing  the  re- 
port from  the  meteorological  station  at  Head- 
quarters. Officers'  automobiles  went  out 
through  the  by-way  of  Pixerecourt.  Dogs 
barked  themselves  hoarse;  beacons  opened 
their  fans  of  spreading  light  on  the  ground; 
engines  began  to  revolve;  there  were  short 
commands,  a  group  around  the  Captain, 
suggestions : 

"Two  squads,  you  understand?  One  to 
follow  the  Moselle,  the  other  the  Sarre; 
rendezvous  where  they  join.  Have  the  ob- 
servers the  call-signal  for  the  return  trip.? 
Attention:  every  airplane  which  fails  to  give 
it,  will  be  fired  on  by  our  anti-aircraft  bat- 
teries, to  prevent  tlie  Boches  from  crossing 
our  lines  with  us.     Forward!" 

Chignole  and  Papa  Charles,  with  belts 
[130] 


Exit  Flagada 

buckled,  waited  their  turn  patiently.  Mimile 
would  have  liked  to  say  something  affection- 
ate, but  he  was  afraid  of  being  snubbed  by 
his  heroes. 

A  biplane  rose,  turned;  then,  with  lights 
lit,  came  back  over  them  at  ten  metres. 
It  was  Frangipane  and  Flagada  who  had  the 
honour  of  leaving  at  the  head  of  the  second 
group,  and  were  moving  off  toward  Chateau- 
Salins. 

"Go  to  it,  old  chap!" 

They  wheeled;  there  was  a  brief  moment  of 
anxiety;  the  biplane  was  so  heavy  with  petrol 
and  explosives  that  it  seemed  unable  to  leave 
the  earth ;  and  the  wood  was  in  their  way  like 
a  wall.  A  sharp  blow  on  the  joy-stick,  and 
they  nose  up,  just  miss  the  wood,  pitch 
heavily.  Is  it  going  to  be  a  slide  ?  No;  Papa 
Charles  lifts  his  hand  at  once,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  hollow  of  Agincourt  to  dive  and 
get  his  equilibrium,  while  increasing  his 
speed. 

"Stay  over  the  parade  ground  till  we're  up 
a  thousand  metres;  if  there's  a  breakdown, 

[131] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

the  cherry  trees  of  Malzeville  will  be  un- 
healthy." 

"We  should  worry!  I  don't  want  to 
crowd  the  fellows  who  are  just  starting  out," 
and  they  flew  over  Champigneulles  at  a  low 
altitude. 

It  was  a  slow  ascent,  with  abrupt  rushes 
of  air  robbing  them  in  an  instant  of  a  hundred 
metres  painfully  achieved. 

*'  Pont-a-Mousson " 

**Nine  hundred.     Climb  still  a  little  more." 

"Fll  be  d Just  enough  petrol." 

There  followed  searchlights  and  cannon- 
ading, but  they  were  rejoined  by  their  com- 
rades;  and  the   Boches,   surprised   at  their 
numbers,  fumbled  their  aim  and  their  shots. 
''Do  we  follow  the  Moselle?" 
"Not  yet.     Better  avoid  Metz." 
They  held  to  the  left  and  tried  to  catch 
the  river  again,  high  above  Thionville,  but 
a  thick  mist  covered  the  valley.     They  had 
to  choose;  either  to  be  seen  and  see  where 
they  were  going;  or  to  hide  in  the  fog,  and 
be  blind. 

[132I 


Exit  Flagada 

"I  don't  like  muck;  it  gives  me  a  cold," 
declared  Chignole,  wrapping  his  muffler  over 
his  mouth. 

"Well,  open  your  eye,  for  they're  going  to 
get  after  us.  Don't  look  at  the  route,  but 
see  what  they're  letting  oflF." 

On  the  ground,  wandering  gleams  betrayed 
the  shots;  then  caterpillars  began  to  rise. 
The  "caterpillar"  is  a  subtle  Teutonic  inven- 
tion composed  of  a  series  of  little  incandescent 
balloons  whose  crimes  are  of  two  kinds: 
if  they  touch  a  plane,  they  set  it  afire;  and 
secondly,  the  iron  wires  stretched  from  one 
balloon  to  the  other  smash  the  propeller  if  it 
becomes  entangled  in  their  network.  There- 
fore despite  the  lure  of  their  poetical  appear- 
ance— rose-colour  and  green — our  friends 
prudently  avoided  them. 

"Oiling  her  up?" 

"Yiss,  miludd!" 

The  biplane  gradually  increased  her 
altitude  until  Papa  Charles,  judging  it  suffi- 
cient, pressed  on  the  control,  thus  gaining 
ten  kilometres  an  hour.  Before  them,  on 
[  133  I 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

the  right,  flashes  zigzagged  through  the 
clouds. 

''There's  a  thunderstorm." 

"Not  a  bit.  That's  the  guys  of  the  second 
squad,  getting  it  in  the  neck;  another  proof 
we're  on  the  right  road." 

"Keep  your  eyes  skinned;  they're  flying 
with  lights  out;  look  out  for  collisions." 

Are  Flagada  and  Frangipane  among  them? 
Does  fortune  favour  them? 

As  if  in  reply  to  their  unspoken  questions, 
a  machine,  with  lamps  and  beacons  alight, 
crossed  their  path. 

"Nobody  but  those  two  would  be  such  fools 
just  here " 

"Except  us." 

Chignole  turned  the  switches. 

"They'll  spot  us.     It's  idiotic '* 


"Perhaps;  but  that'll  give  them  a  jolt!" 
They  descended.  Lights  pricked  the  dark- 
ness; long,  bright  oblongs  marked  the  factory 
buildings  at  work.  They  longed  to  drop 
bombs  on  them,  but  orders  were:  Reprisals. 
The  city  is  to  be  punished. 

[134] 


Exit  Flagada 

It  came  into  view  like  a  black  hole,  in  the 
glass  at  the  bottom  of  the  cockpit.  The 
airplanes  had  already  begun  their  work,  for 
yellow  streaks  were  streaming  over  its  surface, 
and  expanding  into  reddish  blots.  Chignole 
pulled  the  levers  toward  him  with  evident 
satisfaction. 

''Good-night!"  he  shouted  at  the  earth. 

A  loop,  and  back  they  came  again.  Chig- 
nole opened  the  cock  of  the  spirit  indicator. 
The  graduated  tube  was  still  half  full  of 
petrol. 

''She's  holding  out!" 

"I  don't  want  to  give  her  too  much  to  do." 

Papa  Charles  reduced  his  speed,  adjusted 
his  direction  by  the  compass,  and  got  ready 
for  a  bite  of  lunch,  at  his  companion's  invi- 
tation: Crackers,  cakes  of  chocolate,  and 
several  swallows  of  grog  still  hot  from  the 
thermos  bottle.  Their  comrades  passed  by 
them  and  disappeared. 

"They're  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  bed;  we've 
got  all  the  time  there  is " 

Shells  encircled  them,  but  at  a  distance. 
[  135  1 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Chignole  declared  that  this  evening  the  Huns 
had  their  uses. 

"The  Hnes!  Ouf!"  They  smiled  at  hav- 
ing once  again  escaped  a  mishap. 

Then,  suddenly,  a  French  searchhght  trans- 
fixed them,  and  was  turned  on  and  off  at 
regular  intervals. 

"Don't  you  see  they're  asking  you  for 
the  signal?    Why  don't  you  give  it?" 

"The  letter!    The  letter! "  stammered 

Chignole. 

The  searchlight  repeated  its  signal,  but 
rapidly,  jerkily;  they  guessed  that  it  was  as- 
tonished at  having  no  reply. 

"The  letter!  The  letter!  I  can't  remem- 
ber it!" 

A  shot — at  fifty  metres. 

"The  75! — there  she  goes!" 

Papa  Charles  turned  round,  took  hold  of 
Chignole's  arms,  and  shook  them.  "Think! 
We're  done  for!" 

Chignole  strained  every  nerve  and  concen- 
trated his  thoughts  to  rouse  his  memory. 

"Wake  up,  old  son!  What  letter?"  Papa 
[136]  ' 


Exit  Flagada 

Charles  bent  over  as  if  to  pluck  it  out 
of  him. 

The  shells  were  now  harrying  the  machine 
at  close  quarters.  Chignole  no  longer  strug- 
gled. With  haggard  face  he  awaited  the 
explosion — Death. 

Death — the  end  of  everything — of  his  love 
— and  more — of  Sophie;  Sophie — the  dear 
name  was  there,  before  his  eyes,  printed  in  let- 
ters of  fire. 

Then,  as  a  mysterious  clic  reveals  a  secret 
hiding  place,  suddenly,  a  compartment  opened 
in  his  brain:  Sophie — S! — the  first  letter 
of  her  name  was  also  the  letter  of  deliverance, 
and  with  a  choking  voice  he  hurled  it  at 
the  death  which  he  could  defeat  yet  once 
again. 

"S!  —  S!—  Papa  Charles!  —  S!  Fve 
found !" 

V.       FLAGADA    MISSES    HIS    EXIT 

* 'Any  body 'd  know  you  were  a  freak,  to 
catch  the  grippe  in  June!" 

"And  then,  to  climb  to  two  thousand  with- 
[  137  ] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

out  your  old  horse  jacket.     You  really  ought 
to  be  smacked." 

Flagada  was  stretched  on  a  bed  in  the  mess- 
room,  and  despite  the  mild  weather  and  the 
furs  which  covered  him,  he  could  not  get 
warm. 

"We're  going  to  put  a  mustard  plaster  on 
you,  as  the  doctor  ordered." 

"A  mustard  plaster!  It's  the  doctor's 
joke!  Me,  I  know  a  trick  worth  two  of 
that!"  cried  Chignole,  coming  from  the 
kitchen  with  a  cup  in  his  hand.  "You're 
going  to  taste  this  concoction  of  mine,  Fla- 
gada,  old  son.  Hot  wine,  according  to  the 
Bassinet  recipe;  table-claret,  rum,  sugar, 
lemon,  pepper,  clove,  stewed  together  and 
served  piping  hot.  You  swallow,  you  sweat, 
and  to-morrow — you're  on  your  feet  again!" 
^  Bssi — Poum — in  rapid  succession. 

"The  Boches!  They  can't  leave  us  in 
peace." 

"The  escadrille  is  called  out!  Get  your  ma- 
chines!" 

I'm  going  to  get  up."     Flagada  threw 
[138] 


«T>. 


Exit  Flagada 

ofF  his  covers,  but  before  he  could  put  his 
foot  to  the  ground,  Chignole's  fist  had  nailed 
him  to  the  mattress. 

"Do  you  want  to  catch  your  death?  The 
Cap'n  understands.  You're  excused.  All 
you  have  to  do  is  sleep." 

"Go  ahead;  Fll  watch  him.  I  can't  go 
without  my  pilot."  Frangipane  sat  down  by 
his  friend's  pillow,  after  having  tucked  him 
in  with  a  tenderness  surprising  in  one  so  huge. 
Papa  Charles  and  Chignole  hurried  away 
to  their  biplane. 

"Is  it  serious,  this  attack?" 

"No;  chill  and  fever;  a  heavy  cold." 

"Didn't  you  notice? — his   chest  wheezes 


"That's  normal." 

The  messenger  from  Headquarters  came 
up  with  a  rush:  "Twelve  airplanes  by 
Pont-a-Mousson  and  toward  Toul." 

Papa  Charles  manoeuvred  mechanically. 
He  was  amazed  at  his  own  calmness  and  in- 
difference. Where  were  the  shivery  depar- 
tures of  former  days? — ^w^here  were  the  ner- 
[139] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

vous  hands  clutching  the  controls?  Then,  he 
had  felt  the  exciting  obsession  of  danger,  the 
need  of  showing  off,  of  being  in  the  public  eye, 
of  applause  at  the  expense  of  his  skin;  he  had 
felt  ambition  to  outdo  others,  and  thirst  for 
reward.  To-day,  war-weary  and  surfeited, 
he  was  moved  simply  by  the  ardent  desire  to 
fulfil  a  supreme  duty.  He  was  no  longer  an 
aviator  merely  to  play  to  the  gallery,  attract 
attention,  and  subjugate  susceptible  women, 
but  because  in  the  struggle  in  midheaven  he 
had  a  better  chance  to  use  his  initiative  than 
in  the  trenches.  Before,  he  had  fought  for 
himself,  egotistically;  now,  he  was  fighting  for 
others,  and  the  nobility  of  that  disinterested 
duty  made  a  bigger  man  of  him. 


Flagada  was  drowsy,  and  in  his  fever 
dreamed:  He  was  in  a  great  raid;  the  goal 
had  been  attained;  at  the  frontier  there  was  a 
barrage,  a  fight  with  a  Fokker.  Frangipane 
fired,  the  enemy  plane  descended  in  flames, 
after  having  tipped  out  its  passengers  who 
[  140  J 


Exit  Flagada 

spun  round  in  the  void.  He  returned  to  the 
escadrille.  He  was  cited.  Bssi — Poum. 
Champagne!  Leave!  Paris!  Cafe du Globe. 
Old  theatrical  friends.  Bssi — Poum,  Cham- 
pagne. How  much  a  man  could  drink  in  a 
dream! 

The  last  cork  popped  so  loud  that  he  woke 
with  a  start.  Frangipane,  at  a  window, 
seemed  to  be  keenly  interested  in  something 
going  on  outside. 

Bssi — Poum.  Was  his  dream  beginning 
again?    No;  those  were  signal  rockets. 

The  secretary  came  in  and  spoke  to  Frangi- 
pane: "What  do  you  think?  Those  pigs 
have  taken  advantage  of  our  machines  being 
up,  to  come  over  Nancy.  A  Hun  has  been 
sighted  in  the  direction  of  the  forest  of 
Parroy,  and  there's  no  one  to  stop  him." 

"Have  you  warned  Saint-Nicolas-du-Port 
and  Luneville?" 

"Sure!     But    it's    no    good.     While    one 

squad  went  over,  on  their  way  to  Toul,  with 

our  men  at  their  heels,  another  slipped  toward 

the  Vosges,  pursued  from  Luneville.     Saint- 

[141] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Nicolas  IS  regulating  the  artillery,  so  our 
corner  is  stripped;  not  for  long,  of  course,  but 
long  enough  to  get  the  drop  on  Nancy." 

"What  rotten  luck!"  muttered  Frangi- 
pane,  wrathfully.  And  just  then  he  felt  a 
touch  on  his  shoulder  and  turned  round. 

Flagada  had  risen — had  put  on  his  leather 
suit  without  a  sound;  and  now,  as  he  wound 
his  muffler  round  his  neck,  he  said  quite 
simply:    ** We're  going." 

Frangipane,  stupefied,  tried  to  stop  him, 
but  he  had  already  leaped  through  the  door- 
way and  was  making  for  the  hangar  at  a 
jerky  but  rapid  pace. 

The  group  of  mechanics  jumped  at  the 
sound  of  his  whistle.  They  would  have 
helped  him  climb  into  the  cockpit,  but  he 
pushed  them  off. 

"No;  don't  bother;  I  can  do  it  alone." 

He  examined  his  controls,  buckled  himself 
in,  emptied  a  flask  of  spirit  at  a  gulp,  and 
turned  round  upon  his  partner,  who  had 
followed  him: 

"Ready?" 

[142  J 


Exit  Flagada 

**  You're  not  such  an  ass  as 'to  fly  in  this 
condition." 

"ril  go  without  you,  if  you're  afraid  to 
come  with  me." 

"That's  not  the  question." 

"Then  save  your  breath." 

So  they  set  off. 

During  the  first  few  minutes,  Frangipane 
anxiously  watched  his  pilot's  manoeuvres; 
but  they  were  so  normal  that  he  soon  paid 
no  more  attention  to  them  and  occupied 
himself  exclusively  with  the  adversary. 

A  thousand  metres  overhead,  the  dihedral 
of  the  Hun's  dark  wings  was  stamped  sharply 
upon  the  pale  blue  sky.  Flagada  dived 
toward  the  lines  to  get  his  bearings,  then  rose, 
veered,  and  returned  upon  his  enemy  to  attack 
him  from  behind.  The  Boche,  surprised  at 
finding  a  French  plane,  abandoned  his  goal 
for  the  moment  and  stole  away  to  the  left; 
but  a  squad  appeared  in  the  distance,  making 
for  him  at  full  speed.  He  turned  short  round 
and  made  a  feint  to  the  right;  but  the  other 
squad  was  coming  back  from  Toul.  If  he 
[143I 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

delayed,  he  would  be  caught  in  a  pair  of 
tongs,  whose  hinge  was  the  biplane  chasing 
him. 

"He's  ours!"  Frangipane  exulted.  With 
his  forefinger  on  the  trigger  of  the  Lewis,  he 
waited  for  the  psychological  moment  when 
the  Boche  would  be  framed  in  his  collimator. 
But  their  machine,  deprived  of  guidance, 
lurched  abruptly.  Flagada  had  let  go  the  joy- 
stick. His  body  had  fallen  over  backward 
and  his  head  bumped  against  the  support 
of  the  machine  gun.  Still,  he  had  not 
fainted;  with  one  hand  clutching  his  throat 
he  tried  to  pluck  off  the  invisible  noose  that 
was  strangling  him. 

"Fm  choking! — choking!" 

Congestion  had  seized  him.  Frangipane, 
beside  himself  with  fright,  tried  to  loosen 
his  collar,  but  Flagada  would  not  give  up: 
"No;  let  me  save  you.  I  must  save  you." 
He  seized  the  joy-stick  with  a  superhuman 
effort:  "Now — next  thing — tie  my  hands  to 
it;  I  can't  hold  on  if  you  don't." 

Frangipane  obeyed,  with  a  handkerchief. 
[  144  ] 


Exit  Flagada 

"Cut  off  the  gas. — Good! — I  can't  see 
any  more What's  the  altitude?" 

Frangipane  supported  his  companion's 
shoulders.  With  eyes  fixed  on  the  altimetre,  he 
told  him  the  height;  and  the  dying  blind  man, 
rattling  in  his  throat,  with  hands  bound  to 
the  steering  gear,  used  his  last  strength  to 
bring  his  bird  and  his  passenger  home  alive. 


The  walls  of  the  court  of  honour  were  cov- 
ered with  climbing  roses,  which  shed  their 
petals  at  the  lightest  breeze.  From  the  worn 
gullets  of  two  stone  lions  thin  threads  of 
water  trickled,  and  sang  as  they  fell  into  a 
shallow  round  basin  carpeted  with  thick, 
starry  moss.  The  geraniums  in  the  box- 
bordered  garden  plot  spread  like  a  pool  of 
blood  upon  the  lawn.  At  the  wide-open  win- 
dows the  wounded  showed  their  thin  faces, 
lost  under  a  cap,  or  hidden  by  a  bandage. 

As  Papa  Charles,  Frangipane,  and  Chignole 
entered  the  portal  of  the  hospital  an  unpleas- 
ant  shudder   ran   down   their   spines.     The 

iHS] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

military  hospital,  with  its  sickish  smell,  its 
muffled  footsteps  gliding  about  the  corridors, 
its  plaintive  rustling  of  bruised  and  protest- 
ing bodies,  touched  their  sympathetic  hearts, 
which  dreaded  suffering. 

A  surgeon  came  to  meet  them:  "I  sent 
for  you  because  he  has  asked  for  you  several 
times.*'  He  stopped  a  moment,  then  with 
a  weary  gesture:  "He  won't  last  till  to- 
morrow. Yes;  double  pneumonia,  with  cer- 
tainly infectious  grippe." 

An  orderly  added :  "He  is  very  low.  He 
only  speaks  to  ask  what  time  it  is;  it's  a  very 
bad  sign." 

They  entered  the  ward  on  tiptoe.  A  screen 
hid  their  friend's  agony  from  the  other 
patients,  several  of  whom  were  amusing 
themselves  playing  checkers.  They  were 
standing  beside  him;  and  at  the  noise  he 
opened  his  eyes,  looked  at  them  lingeringly, 
as  if  he  did  not  recognize  them  at  all,  then 
smiled  at  them: 

"I  am  very  glad.  I  —  thought  —  you 
wouldn't  come." 

[146] 


JSxit  Flagada 

He  spoke  with  difficulty,  panting  for 
breath,  and  his  hands  crumpled  the  covers 
which  they  were  clutching  convulsively. 

They — abashed  in  the  presence  of  death — 
could  find  nothing  to  say. 

"And  the  Boche — the  other — day?" 

"Brought  down  by  a  Spad/' 

"So  much  the  better — or— worse;  for  it  was 
— really  ours — eh — Frangipane?" 

Ether  on  a  pad  gave  him  momentary 
strength. 

"This — morning — the  Cap  *n — gave  me  the 
medal.  It's  a  beauty!'*  A  tear  rolled  down 
his  pinched  nose.  "Too  bad — I  can't — 
wear  it — what  ?  So  jolly — before  everybody ! 
And  that  I  should — make  a — a  mess — of  it — 
at  the  end!     I've  missed — my  last — exit." 

An  attendant  brought  in  a  tank  of  oxygen. 

"And  there's — my  last — sausage." 

They  left  precipitately,  on  the  pretext  of 
duty,  but  really  because  they  could  no  longer 
keep  back  their  tears. 

When  Papa  Charles  kissed  him,  Flagada 
whispered  in  an  ecstatic  voice:  "Take  a — 
[147] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

good — look  at — the  nurse.  Wouldn't  you — 
swear — she  was — Dona  Sol?*' 

They  walked  silently  along  the  Leopold 
Mall. 

"The  first  to  go." 

"We  don't  grow  old  at  this  trade." 

"Just  long  enough  to  know  one's  equal 
to  great  things,  when  one  must  quit  for  good." 
Frangipane  bowed  his  tall  figure  as  if  he 
bore  a  load  too  heavy  for  him. 

It  was  the  end  of  a  beautiful  Sunday; 
idlers  paced  before  the  shop  windows;  from 
a  cinema  whose  performance  was  just  over, 
a  motley  throng  came  pouring  out  upon  the 
sidewalk.  The  pavements  in  front  of  the 
Cafes  were  full;  the  tramway  from  Laxou 
carried  couples  loaded  with  bouquets. 

"Well,  of  us  four,  he  at  least  is  sure  of 
dying  in  his  bed;  and  really,  it's  the  happiest 
way." 

And  Papa  Charles,  his  fine  eyes  lifted  to  the 
skies:  "Are  you  sure,  Chignole,  that  it's 
the  happiest  way?" 

[  148  1 


IV 
THE  BEST  WAY 

I.      THE    FIRST  CLASS 

THE  parlour  at  Marjean's  was  full  of 
smoke,  despite  the  open  window. 
This  cafe,  or  rather  inn,  was  a  sort  of 
General  Headquarters  for  the  conscientious 
electors  of  the  village  of  Duesmes,  who  were 
in  the  habit  of  gathering  there,  to  gossip  with 
their  constituents.  In  times  of  peace,  no 
one  was  ever  in  the  parlour  except  on  Sun- 
day after  vespers,  or  market  day,  the  first 
Saturday  of  the  month.  But  since  the  war 
the  place  had  known  a  daily  prosperity.  It 
was  here  that  the  mayor  read  aloud  the  offi- 
cial bulletin  which  he  received  from  the 
Sous-Prefecture  through  the  intervention  of 
the  postmistress,  Mademoiselle  Vantrouille. 

[149] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

It  was  here  that  villagers,  in  chorus,  bewailed 
the  requisitions  because  it  is  the  fashion  to 
blame  the  Government;  although,  privately, 
they  were  glad  of  them,  since  they  made 
money  by  them.  Here,  drinking  bitter  beer 
and  abusing  the  ox-eyed  maid  who  had  to 
endure  their  scolding,  they  forgot  their 
homes,  so  empty  since  their  strong-armed 
sons  had  gone  to  the  front.  They  forgot 
their  wives  whom  grief  had  made  more 
greedy  and  more  crabbed. 

This  evening,  as  on  the  evenings  before 
elections,  the  crowd  had  gathered  around  the 
people  of  importance : 

Champommier,  physician  and  district  dep- 
uty. This  unworthy  graduate  of  the  Medi- 
cal School  had  been  obliged  to  leave  the  city 
because  of  unpleasant  rumours  concerning  his 
affairs,  and  was  now  trying  for  a  deputyship 
in  rural  politics.  When  he  let  fall  from  his  thin 
lips  certain  high-sounding  socialistic  formulae, 
his  long  hungry  teeth  gleamed  through  his 
dirty  beard.  If  he  got  a  chance  at  the  butter, 
there  was  never  much  left  for  any  one  else. 
[150] 


The  Best  Way 

Next,  Malinvaud,  complacently  lifting  his 
enormous  wine-smeared,  full-moon  face,  above 
the  bowl  of  his  gross  body:  he  was  Chevalier 
du  Merite  Agricole;  and  Mr.  Mayor,  the  mu- 
nicipal judge, — ^to  whom  the  rural  guard  and 
the  chief  of  police  (if  not  too  tipsy)  paid  their 
respects. 

Then,  Vilardier,  dry  as  the  herrings  curled 
round  in  their  hogshead  at  the  door  of  his 
grocer>%  waiting  for  customers. 

''Well,  Mr.  Mayor,  what  do  you  plan  to 
do  to  set  it  straight.?" 

"It  would  be  a  disgrace  for  our  parish." 

"I — ^you  understand — if  it  happens,  I 
shall  send  my  boys  to  the  Cure.  So  much 
the  worse  for  the  Republic!" 

"We  expected  you  to  be  more  firm. 
You've  been  as  soft  as  tripe — excuse  my 
frankness." 

The  Mayor  took  a  whifF  at  his  pipe,  and 
spat:  "I  also  am  annoyed  at  what  has  hap- 
pened, but  I  am  still  more  annoyed  that  my 
Breton  cow  is  about  to  calve." 

Vilardier  felt  that  it  was  up  to  him  to  con- 
I  iSi  1 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

tinue  the  conversation  in  his  capacity  of  as- 
sistant magistrate: 

"Of  course,  it's  tiresome  that  they  should 
send  us,  to  take  the  place  of  the  late  Ratier, 
a  teacher  whom  we  don't  know,  but  what 
can  you  do — cesi  la  guerre  I "  And  he  reflected 
that  as  sugar  had  gone  up  5  per  cent.,  it  was 
quite  natural  that  he  should  double  the  price 
to  the  consumer. 

Champommier — having  neither  a  cow 
about  to  calve,  nor  a  business  blessed  with  an 
unexpected  profit,  but  only  his  patients  to 
occupy  his  time  (in  other  words,  nothing  of 
interest)  approached  the  subject  with  an  en- 
tirely free  mind,  and  embraced  the  opportu- 
nity to  hold  forth  : 

"The  central  authority  has  saddled  us 
with  a  teacher  without  consulting  our  prefer- 
ence. It  is  illegal,  but  let  us  wait  before  as- 
serting ourselves." 

"He's  to  begin  to-morrow  morning.'* 
"Well,  then,  don't  be  impatient.'* 
"In  the  first  place,  it  would  seem  that 
he's  an  old  man;  and  old  men — I've  no  con- 

[152] 


The  Best  Way 

fidence  in  them/*  this  from  old  Marjean, 
nicknamed  Death's  Deceiver,  because  he  was 
over  ninety. 

"They  certainly  might  have  given  us 
somebody  disabled  in  the  war,"  replied 
Champommier.  "That  would  have  been 
flattering  and  ornamental.  But  what's  done 
is  done."  He  stroked  his  beard  with  his 
hairy  hand,  adjusted  his  eyeglass  and  gurgled 
forth  his  phrases:  "We'll  judge  him  by  his 
work.  It's  by  his  work  that  the  workman  is 
judged." 

Malinvaud  scented  the  danger  of  letting 
Champommier  talk  too  long,  as  he  might  be 
a  serious  rival  at  the  municipal  elections,  so 
he  now  put  in  his  oar: 

"The  council  will  be  present  at  his  first 
class,  and  as  our  district  councillor  has  so 
justly  observed,  the  workman  shall  be  judged 
by  his  work.  Besides,  I'll  pull  his  leg,  as 
my  boy  says;  he's  full  of  Paris  slang  now 
that  he  goes  to  college  at  Chatillon-sur- 
Seine." 

"Our  Mayor'll  pull  his  leg,"  the  crowd 
[153] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

repeated,  admiring  the  words  it  did  not 
understand. 

The  Mayor,  flattered  by  the  sensation  he 
had  made,  could  not  have  resisted  the  pleas- 
ure of  explaining  his  joke,  but  just  then  the 
piercing  voice  of  his  wife  rang  out  in  the  yard : 

"Victor! — Come  quick! — ^The  cow  has 
calved! — Hurry!    You  tipsy  fool!" 


The  little  railway  train  puffed  as  it  cHmbed 
the  steep  incline  which  led  to  the  station  at 
the  end  of  the  line.  It  arrived  at  last,  but 
stopped  so  suddenly  that  the  cars  banged 
into  each  other,  and  a  peasant  who  was  shaken 
up  by  the  collision  exclaimed : 

"They  call  that  progress!" 

An  old  man  got  dovm  and  hurried  toward 
the  exit  as  fast  as  he  could,  lugging  a  heavy 
band  box. 

"Is  it  the  school  you  want?  Straight  on, 
as  far  as  the  church,  and  at  the  left  of  the 
square,  opposite  the  liberty  pole,"  replied  the 
official  who  took  his  ticket.     "That  must  be 

[154] 


The  Best  Way 

the  new  master,"  he  murmured,  looking 
after  him. 

The  old  man — for,  judging  by  his  white 
hair,  his  bent  shoulders,  and  his  weary  step, 
he  was  indeed  an  old  man — took  advantage 
of  the  first  milestone,  to  sit  down.  He  took 
off  his  felt  hat,  wiped  his  forehead,  and 
brushed  the  dust  from  his  shoes  with  a  hand- 
ful of  grass.  Before  him,  the  market  town 
rose  on  the  hillside,  its  flat-roofed  houses 
clustered  round  the  bell  tower.  In  the  de- 
serted yards  the  hot  stone  walls  caught  the 
sun's  rays  and  ripened  the  trellised  fruit- 
trees.  Beyond,  the  wheat  fields  which  were 
beginning  to  turn  yellow,  stood  out  from  the 
dark  Spanish  trefoil.  In  the  bright  morning 
the  town  was  attractive,  and  the  bell  which 
was  ringing  seemed  to  invite  him  graciously 
to  make  haste. 

But  the  old  man  shook  his  head,  disillu- 
sioned. Though  the  inanimate  things  might 
seem  friendly,  he  knew  that  the  people  were 
not.  He  reviewed  in  memory  his  career  as 
a   country  school   teacher,   exposed  to  the 

[155] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

insults  and  rebuffs  of  the  peasants.  To 
them,  the  man  who  does  not  work  with  his 
hands  is  a  humbug,  a  regular  good-for- 
nothing.  He  could  make  no  headway  against 
their  instinctive  hate  except  by  becoming  the 
secretary  on  the  Mayor's  office — the  electoral 
agent,  that  is  to  say — and  he  was  one  of  those 
unusual  people  who  had  not  the  soul  of  a 
lackey.  Ah,  he  knew  them!  these  villages 
outwardly  so  quiet,  but  really  the  battle- 
ground of  all  the  sordid  struggles  of  an  ignor- 
ant humanity,  delivered  over  to  its  worst 
instincts.  This  was  a  new  station  in  his 
Way  of  the  Cross,  this  schoolhouse,  so  co- 
quettish and  white;  he  knew  it  and  he  ap- 
proached it  resignedly,  for  such  is  hfe. 

On  the  doorstep  the  women  Hfted  their 
heads  from  the  beans  which  they  were  shell- 
ing, nudged  each  other,  and  laughed  behind 
his  back. 

"There  he  is!  Our  Mayor's  going  to  pull 
his  leg!" 

He  went  up  the  steps.  A  bird  sang  in  the 
trellis  which  framed  a  bay  of  the  fa9ade. 
I  156] 


The  Best  Way 

"Cm — Cui!"     It  was  the  piteous  cry  of  a 
wounded  bird. 

He  entered  the  schoolroom.  The  children 
stared  at  him  curiously  from  their  desks. 
The  authorities  were  seated  in  full  array 
under  the  chairmanship  of  Malinvaud,  who 
had  put  on  his  tricoloured  scarf  in  honour  of 
the  occasion. 

After  brief  greetings,  the  Mayor  climbed 
to  the  platform  and  addressed  the  audience: — 

"Citizens,  here  is  your  schoolmaster,  M. 
Tatignon,  who  enters  upon  his  duties  to-day.'' 

He  could  go  no  further,  for  the  "citizens,'' 
from  five  to  eight  years  of  age,  burst  out 
laughing.  "Tatignon!"  The  citizens  wrig- 
gled. 

Ah,  what  shall  he  do.^*  They  will  avenge 
themselves  on  him  because  his  redoubtable 
predecessor  chastised  them  to  excess  with 
an  immense  rod  which  served  as  a  pointer 
in  explaining  the  maps  on  the  wall.  The 
old  man  gazed  without  heart  into  the  shining 
eyes  fixed  upon  him  by  the  wicked  little 
beasts  on  watch. 

[157] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

The  Mayor,  having,  by  the  aid  of  strong 
language,  obtained  an  approach  to  silence, 
turned  toward  the  victim  and  said  with  an 
assumption  of  good  will: 

"The  Council  has  decided  that  because  of 
circumstances  you  will  open  this  first  class 
with  an  address  on  heroism,  at  which  the 
Council  will  be  present  in  a  body,  hoping 
that  you  will  fully  appreciate  the  honour  of 
this  arrangement." 

The  public,  in  the  secret,  laughed  in  its 
sleeve.  "That's  it!  Our  Mayor's  going  to 
pull  his  leg!" 

The  old  man  blenched.  It  was  a  trap. 
They  were  trying  to  ridicule  him,  to  prove 
how  little  he  knew.  He  gathered  his  ideas 
together;  Heroism — of  course,  there  were 
ever  so  many  examples:  D'Assas;  La  Tour 
d'Auvergne;  the  sailors  of  the  Vengeur.^ 
It  was  an  easy  subject,  but  he  did  not  im-' 
provise  easily.  These  hostile  faces  deterred 
him;  fear  paralyzed  him. 

Then  the  postman  entered: 

"Pardon!    Excuse   me,   Mr.   Mayor  and 
[158] 


The  Best  Way 

the  company,  but  I  bring  M.  Tatignon  some 
letters  which  have  already  been  here  some 
time,  as  Mademoiselle  Vantrouille  explains. 
Your  servant,  sirs." 

The  old  man  seized  the  packet  with  a 
greedy  gesture.  The  one  he  wanted  was  not 
there;  but  on  one  envelope  a  military  stamp 
drew  his  attention. 

**It  is  from  his  squadron,  and  that's  not 
his  handwriting!"  He  ripped  it  open  with 
a  horrible  prescience  of  misfortune  and 
skimmed  through  it  rapidly.  His  lips  moved. 
He  wanted  to  speak,  but  the  words  would 
not  form  in  his  contracted  throat. 

"He  can't  pull  it  off,"  whispered  Cham- 
pommier. 

**  We're  waiting  on  you.  Master,"  said 
Malinvaud  sweetly. 

He  drew  himself  up  and  seemed  to  have 
grown  immeasurably  taller.  His  dilated  eyes 
shone  with  a  strange  light.  The  sheet  of 
paper  trembled  in  his  fingers: 

"You  have  asked  me  to  speak  on  heroism. 
It  is  here.  In  the  squadron  they  called  him 
[iS9l 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Flagada.     His  real  name  was  Louis  Tatignon. 
He  was  my  son.     He  has  died  out  there." 

In  the  trellis,  the  bird  gave  his  piercing, 
"Cui,  cui!" — then  was  silent. 

II.      PAPA   CHARLES    LOOKS   OUT   FOR  HIMSELF 

The  machine  guns  were  crackling  at  the 
shooting  range  in  a  hollow  near  Lay-Saint- 
Christophe.  While  the  scorers  stopped  up 
the  holes  in  the  target,  the  gunners  rested. 

"FU  play  you  for  cocktails  with  the 
Browning,  Papa  Charles;  five  balls.  Fm  in 
luck  to-day;  did  you  take  a  squint  at  my 
targets?  Regular  sieves  they  are,  since  the 
sight  of  my  Hotchkiss  was  corrected.  Her 
shooting  is  adorable.  Come  ahead.  If  you 
lose,  you  can  take  it  out  on  Frangipane." 

And  Chignole  invited  them  to  go  down  from 
the  hillock.      But  Papa  Charles  stopped  him: 

"We  haven't  time.  I  have  permission 
from  the  Captain  to  use  his  car  to  take  us 
to  the  cemetery.*' 

The  ghost  of  Flagada  rose  before  them. 
Oh,  not  a  terrifying  ghost,  gaunt  and  menac- 
[i6o] 


The  Best  Way 

ing  beneath  a  shroud!  No;  memory  recalled 
the  image  of  their  friend  under  his  usual 
aspect,  sympathetic  and  gay,  with  the  the- 
atrical pose  that  made  him  so  amusing. 
Neither  Chignole  (upon  whom  events  made 
only  fleeting  impressions)  nor  even  Frangipane 
(still  a  novice  in  flying)  was  much  moved 
by  this  recollection  of  sad  hours.  But  Papa 
Charles,  who  had  finished  his  twenty-fifth 
month  in  the  squadron,  beheld  the  dolorous 
band  of  his  vanished  comrades  pass  before 
him.  Their  names  crowded  to  his  lips,  and 
he  recalled  the  very  form  under  which  death 
had  overtaken  each  one:  caught  under  the 
engine;  hit  by  anti-aircraft  guns;  smashed  in 
landing;  brought  down  by  a  Hun;  burned; 
missing.  He  read  in  their  faces  an  almost 
ironical  astonishment. 

"Yes;  I  am  still  here." 

Their  hands  reached  out  to  him  and  their 
lips  murmured,  **It  is  your  turn  next." 

Unconsciously,  he  gave  a  low  groan. 

**I  say! — ^What's  the  matter  with  you?" 
said  Chignole,  nudging  him. 
[  i6i  1 


Bird^  of  a  Feather 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  to  dispel 
the  nightmare:     "Nothing.     Nothing! " 


As  they  were  getting  into  the  automobile, 
Frangipane  offered  them  cigarettes  from  his 
engraved  case.  Papa  Charles  scratched  a 
match,  held  it  out  to  his  two  friends  and  used 
it  himself  before  extinguishing  it,  whereupon 
Frangipane  exclaimed:  "Three  with  the 
same  match!     That  means  bad  luck." 

Papa  Charles  shivered  involuntarily,  but  re* 
covered  his  coolness  at  once  and  retorted :"  Ri- 
diculous— such  sayings!" 

"I  detest  superstitions."  Chignole  added 
airily. 

And  the  car  started. 

"Do  you  think  you'll  know  how  to  fly 
in  the  daytime,  now  that  weVe  been  playing 
the  owl  so  long.f^ — ^Ah,  old  man — ^we've  got  a 
fine  spin  in  prospect!  I'm  delighted  with  the 
objective!  What  sport  to  drop  these  on 
them " 

Chignole,  with  Frangipane  helping  him, 
was  setting  the  bombs  carefully  in  their  racks. 
[162I 


The  Best  Way 

Papa  Charles,  seated  on  the  edge  of  the 
cockpit,  was  watching  the  oscillations  of  the 
needle  of  the  speed-indicator,  while  Mimile 
looked  to  the  oiling. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  mill  to-day? 
— only  i,ooo,  1,050  revolutions?" 

"I  don't  understand  it  at  all.  Papa  Charles, 
it's  less  than  a  week  since  the  valves  were 
ground.  We  need  a  new  one — that's  the 
trouble." 

Chignole  tested  each  cylinder,  listened 
carefully,  then  with  a  half-satisfied  grimace 
added:  '*It  might  go  better,  but  there's 
nothing  to  worry  about.  In  the  air  it  will 
increase  by  at  least  one  hundred  revolutions." 

Frangipane,  who  was  staying  below,  as  he 
no  longer  had  a  pilot,  watched  them  start, 
uneasily.  After  several  pick-ups,  the  biplane 
tried  to  rise,  but  fell  back;  at  last,  helped  by 
the  steepness  of  the  flying  field,  the  wheels 
left  the  earth  and  the  machine  got  its  equi- 
librium at  a  low  altitude,  after  balancing  first 
on  one  wing,  then  on  the  other. 

"She's  heating  up  all  right."  And  Papa 
[163I 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

Charles  took  his  way  nonchalantly  toward  the 
directing  station  of  the  75 's,  to  watch  their 
evolutions  through  the  glass. 

*'It  won't  climb!  We  got  ofF  because  it's 
the  fashion!"  Papa  Charles  struck  the 
altimeter  with  his  fist. 

**  Don't  get  excited.  You'll  ruin  your  dis- 
position, and  do  no  good." 

"Look  at  the  others." 

Above  them,  their  comrades  were  climbing 
easily.  He  tried  all  the  manoeuvres  which 
usually  help  climbing,  but  because  the  ma- 
chine side-slipped,  he  nosed  down,  thus  losing 
height.  There  were  the  trenches  already. 
The  Captain's  rocket  made  a  gray  streak  in 
the  clear  atmosphere.  Papa  Charles  tried 
hard  to  rejoin  the  squad,  but  Chignole  pro- 
tested vigorously. 

"Do  you  want  to  annihilate  us.? — 1,000 
metres!  No,  my  friend!  That's  not  avia- 
tion, it's  suicide!" 

Papa  Charles  turned  unwillingly,  reduced 
the  speed,  descended,  landed,  and  said  curtly: 

"Put  up  the  taxi.  Turn  the  mill  upside 
[164] 


The  Best  Way 

down  and  see  what  it  has  in  its  belly/'  Then, 
addressing  Frangipane  who  had  run  up  for 
news:  "It's  disgusting!  The  first  time  I 
ever  came  back  without  reaching  my  goal." 

As  the  mechanics  rolled  the  biplane  toward 
the  hangar  and  he  steered  it  by  the  rudder, 
he  heard  one  of  them  say  very  distinctly : 

"Papa  Charles  won't  go  up  again." 

And  another  voice  added  : 

"He  must  take  care  of  himself  for  the  sake 
of  his  lady-love." 

Papa  Charles  turned  pale,  and  set  his 
teeth,  then  he  said  brusquely: 

"  Stop !  Turn  her  into  the  wind.  Get  out, 
Chignole,  without  your  weight  I  can  go  up." 

And  before  Chignole  and  Frangipane  could 
prevent  him,  he  had  put  the  gas  on  full,  and 
pulled  the  joy-stick  to  him.  The  machine 
made  a  deep  zoum  to  get  a  clear  line  of  flight 
once  more. 

Chignole  drew  Frangipane  aside:  "Did 
you  hear  what  one  of  those  guys  said?" 

"Yes;  some  mechanic — ^jealous." 

"Do  you  know  which  it  was?" 
[  i6s  ] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 


"No." 


So  much  the  better  for  him.  If  anything 
happens  to  Papa  Charles — I  shall  kill  him. 
He's  a  murderer." 


Lightened  of  his  load,  Papa  Charles  flew 
toward  the  lines,  increasing  his  altitude  as 
he  flew.  The  rotation  speed  of  his  engine 
did  not  improve,  but  the  decrease  was  not 
marked.  That  was  a  good  sign,  and  he 
hummed  a  fox  trot  which  recalled  happy 
hours.  He  was  glad  of  his  decision.  His 
companions  would  be  much  astonished  at 
his  fantastic  departure,  and  the  slanderous 
tongue  would  be  silenced.  As  Chignole 
would  say,  it  would  give  the  squadron  a  jolt, 
— and  at  the  thought  of  the  figure  the  latter 
was  certainly  cutting  at  the  present  moment, 
he  laughed  aloud,  just  as  the  enemy  fired  his 
first  shell.  His  squad  was  coming  back, 
its  task  ended,  and  he  darted  toward  the 
planes,  wove  his  way  among  them,  exchanged 
salutes  with  several,  and  then  guided  by 
[i66] 


The  Best  Way 

tKe  pond  of  Lindrer  shining  on  his  right  under 
the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  he  easily  made  out 
his  goal. 

He  had  to  double^  as  two  Huns  were  pur- 
suing him.  But  when  they  shot,  he  dived  as 
if  he  were  struck  and  were  falling;  and  he 
pretended  so  well  that  they  let  him  go  down 
quietly,  and  he  found  himself  just  over  the 
aerodrome.  The  hangars  were  visible  des- 
pite their  camouflage;  in  front,  some  mono- 
planes marked  with  black  crosses  were  going 
out.  He  turned  half  way  round,  released 
the  bombs,  straightened  up,  veered,  and  fled 
toward  the  frontier. 

For  a  moment,  the  Boches  were  perplexed 
by  this  unexpected  manoeuvre;  then  enraged 
at  being  tricked,  they  hurled  themselves  in 
his  wake.  But  luckily  for  Papa  Charles,  at 
that  moment  the  Farmans,  flanked  by  the 
Nieuports,  found  the  range  for  the  batteries, 
so  the  Boches  preferred  not  to  give  battle, 
but  to  let  the  Voisin  continue  unmolested  on 


Its  way. 
"That's  done!" 


[167] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

But  just  then  four  shells  encircled  him 
and  he  felt  a  lively  heat  at  his  back.  A 
shot  had  cut  through  a  tube  of  the  radi- 
ator, and  the  boiling  water  was  spouting 
through  the  crack.  This  shower  bath  did 
not  disturb  him  much,  but  if  the  radiator  ran 
dry,  the  engine  could  not  be  cooled;  it  would 
stick,  and  there  would  be  a  breakdown.  So 
he  let  go  the  joy-stick,  and  stopped  the  flow 
by  twisting  the  pipe  with  a  pair  of  pliers. 
But  when  he  took  hold  of  the  steering  gear 
again  to  bring  his  biplane  back  into  the  right 
road  and  avoid  collisions,  he  was  horror  struck 
at  the  new  situation  confronting  him.  The 
controls  of  the  joy-stick  would  not  move. 
He  leaned  over.  The  cables  of  the  elevator 
were  broken  and  hung  down  brushing  the 
screw.  He  closed  the  inlet  to  prevent  the 
propeller  from  coming  in  contact  with  them 
and  smashing,  and  he  tried  to  reestablish  his 
equilibrium  with  the  help  of  the  rudder-bar. 
But  the  machine  tipped  violently  on  its  nose 
and  began  to  spin  round  on  the  end  of  the 
cockpit. 

[i68] 


The  Best  Way 

It  was  the  tail-spin. 

He  felt  as  if  he  were  attached  to  a  giant 
gimlet,  hung  in  space,  which  increased  its 
speed  with  every  twist.  Head  down,  cling- 
ing with  all  his  might  so  as  not  to  be  pitched 
out  of  his  seat,  he  shut  his  eyes  to  avoid  the 
dizziness  which  he  felt  when  he  saw  the  ground 
apparently  pitching  round  him  in  a  spiral. 
He  had  one  brief  gleam  of  hope,  when  the 
machine  slid  and  came  back  to  level.  He 
opened  his  eyes:  eight  hundred  metres. 
Saved?  No.  He  dived  again,  and  again 
the  tail-spin  began. 

This  was  the  end.  Whatever  happened,  he 
was  done  for.  There  was  no  longer  height 
enough  even  for  an  improbable  flattening  out. 

The  end.  The  two  words  hammered 
frightfully  in  his  ears  which  were  whistling 
under  the  rapid  change  of  atmospheric 
pressure.  The  end.  Nothing  to  do  about  it. 
He  was  the  victim  of  forces  subdued  but  not 
yet  enslaved. 

But  he  would  not  die  smashed  under  the 
weight  of  his  biplane.  He  undid  his  belt, 
[169] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

opened  his  arms,  and  with  a  great  cry  flung 
himself  to  meet  that  cruel  earth  v/hich  seemed 
to  rush  up  toward  him  in  order  to  devour  him 
more  quickly. 

III.      A   LETTER 

Escadrille,  V.B. 

In  every  squadron  there  is  a  metal  coffer  kept  with 
the  greatest  care  in  the  office  of  the  quartermaster, 
who  has  the  key.  In  it  are  placed,  by  every  pilot  and 
observer,  the  letters  to  be  sent  in  case  of  accident. 
To-day,  I  bring  to  it  this  letter,  destined  for  you,  my 
very  dear.  It  will  be  in  good  company.  Mothers, 
wives,  betrothed,  mistresses,  sisters,  god-mothers; 
these  are  its  companions.  Love,  passion,  broken 
hearts,  hidden  longings,  unsatisfied  caresses,  faded 
flowers,  last  wishes,  everything  that  endears,  every- 
thing that  stirs  to  remembrance;  the  sentimental 
hodge-podge  of  twenty  young  men  is  locked  up  in  this 
steel  box. 

It  is  no  vague  presentiment  which  leads  me  to  write 
you,  but  the  cool  scrutiny  of  my  situation,  which  con- 
vinces me  that  my  doom  will  soon  be  upon  me. 

Yes;  the  idler,  the  jester,  the  dilettante,  the  truly 
Parisian  comrade  that  was  I,  in  times  of  peace,  ought 
logically  to  disappear  in  this  torment,  and  I  ask  your 
scatter-brain  to  follow  my  argument  for  a  few  moments. 

I  left  for  the  front  without  enthusiasm,  in  those 

[  170  ] 


The  Best  Way 

flower-decked  trains,  chalked  over  with  notices  an- 
nouncing Berlin  as  the  first  stop.  I  didn't  believe  it. 
I  recognized  too  well  the  German's  strong  grip  upon 
our  vitals;  the  slow  disintegration  of  our  Republic, 
promoted  by  the  depravity  of  our  politicians;  the  de- 
grading softness  into  which  we  had  been  led  by  the 
doctrine  of  peace  at  any  price. 

At  the  overthrow  of  Belgium,  I  said :  "  It  was  bound 
to  happen!"  And  when  Paris  was  threatened,  I  said: 
"It  is  fate." 

•  The  Mame  surprised  me.  Without  attributing  it 
to  the  intervention  of  Sainte-Genevieve,  I  did  for  a 
moment  recognize  something  akin  to  miracle  in  it — a 
rebirth,  an  awakening.  But  my  pessimism  got  the 
upper  hand  again:  "It  is  a  stroke  of  luck,"  I  thought; 
and  I  went  down  into  the  trenches  quite  without  hope. 

Then  the  surprises  began.  I  found  that  I  had 
really  been  aware  of  nothing.  The  "  knowing  gentle- 
man," saturated  with  morbid  egoism  and  excessive 
individualism,  was  an  ignoramus  who  had  judged  the 
world  from  the  sofa  in  his  lounging  room. 

The  wretched  infantry  revealed  life  to  me  under 
its  brutal  but  simple  aspect,  stripped  of  the  subtleties 
and  complexities  with  which  we  snobs  try  to  trim  it 
up.  At  last  I  understood  the  worth  of  realities,  the 
beauty  of  action,  daily  duty,  sacrifice  for  others, 
for  the  unknown;  I,  who  had  always  bounded  every- 
thing by  my  own  small  personality.  Now,  dependent 
upon  myself  alone,  I  blessed  discipline  and  accepted 
the  uncompromising  militarism  of  a  Psichari. 

[171] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

'  This  change  did  not  take  place  without  a  struggle, 
without  hard  knocks.  The  past  called  to  mej  I  felt 
the  lure  of  the  cloudy  reveries  of  former  days;  I  breathed 
the  perfume  of  old  letters;  I  suffered  when  I  saw  my 
dear  ones  unchanged,  while  I  was  so  radically  trans- 
formed. 

Then,  aviation  cast  its  spell  upon  me.  My  feelings 
when  I  made  my  first  flight  as  a  pilot  were  like  those 
I  had  felt  at  my  first  communion:  the  same  faith,  the 
same  mystical  confidence;  I  gave  myself  to  my  wings 
as  I  had  given  myself  to  God. 

Joys,  robust,  almost  savage,  healthy  emotions, 
brotherly  fellowship,  heroic  nonsense;  these  were  what 
I  found  as  I  followed  my  profession  of  bird-man. 

When  Karlsruhe,  which  I  had  gone  out  to  bomb, 
appeared  in  the  pane  of  glass  on  the  floor  of  my  cock- 
pit, my  happiness  reached  its  height.  That  day  I 
avenged  the  insult  of  1870  and  of  1914  in  my  own  name 
and  the  name  of  my  ancestors.  I  blotted  out  Sedan 
and  Charleroi.  I  was  no  longer  conquered,  nor  the 
son  of  the  conquered  r 

Even  physically,  the  war  has  changed  me.  Shall 
I  prove  it?  Do  you  remember  that  breakfast  we  had 
together  in  a  restaurant  near  the  Madeleine,  during 
my  last  leave?  A  gentleman  who  was  sucking  the 
claws  of  his  broiled  lobster  said  to  his  companion, 
indicating  me:  "Look,  what  a  splendid  military 
type -" 

A  military  type! — the  ex-dude  of  Maxim's,  whom 
the  Americans  regarded  with  awe  because  of  his  pecu- 

[172] 


The  Best  Way 

liar  manner  of  guzzling  champagne!  A  military 
type — the  frequenter  of  green-rooms,  grill-rooms, 
suspicious  houses,  race  tracks,  and  also  of  second-rate 
shows,  beer  gardens,  and  holidays  at  Neuilly;  high  life 
after  the  manner  of  Jean  Lorrain!  A  military  type!— 
the  lover  of  the  little  light-of-love  who  had  been  the 
mistress  of  old  Machin! 

So,  you  see,  my  redemption  was  complete.  Why, 
then,  since  I  have  improved  so  much,  now  that  I  have 
learned  how  to  live  better,  now  that  I  have  redeemed 
my  faults,  paid  my  debts,  got  a  steady  head  on  the 
wing — why  wish  for  death  ? 

Because,  in  spite  of  everything,  I  have  not  wholly 
shuffled  off  the  old  man,  and  I  have  no  confidence  in 
the  future.  I  am  weak,  and  I  am  afraid  to  go  back 
to  those  hours  of  the  past:  monotonous,  idle,  lulled  by 
such  phrases  as  "It  will  come  out  all  right'*;  "It's  of 
no  consequence" — which  Chignole  translates  so  well 
by  his:  "What's  the  odds,  so  long  as  we're  jolly?" 

Just  now,  I  am  so  far  away  from  our  petty  interests, 
our  narrow  sordidness,  our  childish  vanities,  our  poor 
little  sentimental  quarrels,  our  daily  renewal  of  our 
vows,  that  I  feel  an  instinctive  disgust,  an  irresistible 
repulsion,  at  the  thought  of  once  more  hampering 
myself  with  all  that  folly. 

Yes,  I  am  afraid  of  the  future.  I  hear  the  dull  rum- 
bling of  the  poorer  classes  against  a  social  organization 
which  is  going  to  pieces,  and  which  the  war  has  dis- 
credited; I  foresee  acute  struggles  between  capital 
and  labour,  the  hatred  of  the  peasant,  who  has  done 

[  173  1 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

the  fighting,  for  the  workman  who  has  made  the 
shells. 

Peace  is  not  an  end,  it  is  an  attitude.  Dark  years 
must  intervene  before  order  can  be  established. 

How  should  I  employ  them?  Badly,  probably. 
In  any  event,  less  well  than  at  present.  Besides,  I 
would  rather  go  out  beautifully,  in  the  best  act  of  the 
play,  a  modest  supernumerary  in  the  splendid^ad venture, 
in  the  red  and  gold  apotheosis  of  blood  and  of  the  sun. 

Granted  that  all  that  is  a  pose;  it  has  only  the  value 
of  a  gesture,  but  doesn't  the  crowd  follow  a  gesture 
better  than  an  idea? 

The  graduate  of  Saint-Cyr  who  charged  in  white 
gloves  and  with  plumbs  in  his  cap  was  a  fool,  doubtless; 
but  such  fools  are  needed  to  set  reasonable  folk  on  fire. 

Navarre,  giving  his  exhibitions  over  the  trenches, 
heaped  up  for  himself  the  hatred  of  the  aviation  func- 
tionaries who  go  up  prudently  once  in  six  months  to 
secure  their  indemnity  from  flying;  but  he  remains, 
nevertheless,  the  father  of  aerial  tactics  of  pursuit. 

Don*t  think  for  a  minute  that  I  consider  myself  a 
hero  and  that  my  conduct  requires  courage.  No. 
The  only  time  when  my  courage  failed  me  a  little  was 
on  my  last  visit  to  Paris.  Ah,  the  rear! — Never  go 
back  behind  the  lines,  it  is  too  hard  to  return  after- 
wards. The  inventors  of  "leave"  were  paltry  psy- 
chologists, or  lusty  fellows  who  could  take  it  easily. 

For,  after  all,  even  when  denuded  of  great  expe- 
riences, this  life  is  still  to  be  desired.  This  life!  It  is: 
your  bright  eyes,  your  long  curled  lashes,  your  wheed- 

I174I 


The  Best  Way 

ling  hands;  our  endless  automobile  escapades,  our 
feverish  evenings  at  La  Napoule,  ouj  quiet  mornings  at 
Saint-Gervais. 

I  must  not  turn  over  those  happy  pages,  they  would 
move  me  too  much;  and  for  a  gentleman  who  affects 
the  stoic,  that  would  be  really  too  comical. 

What  sonorous  phrases  are  these!  How  serious, 
how  weighty,  for  the  frivolous  little  person  that  you 
are,  and  that  you  will  always  be.  For,  my  dear,  you 
will  never  change;  your  charm  lies  in  your  tranquil 
inconsequence. 

You  will  forgive  me  when  you  remember  that  this 
evening,  if  I  am  grumbling,  it  is  because  I  am  afraid 
that  you  are  deceiving  me;  that  if  I  see  everything 
black,  it  is  because  you  see  everything  rose-colour. 

Above  all,  don*t  regret  me.  To  guard  against 
regret,  think  how  my  body,  which  you  have  loved,  will 
be  mutilated  in  the  final  crash,  and  *he  horror  of  the 
picture  will  drive  the  repulsive  corpse  forever  from 
your  thoughts. 

Adieu.    I  adore  you. 

Papa  Charles. 


II.      EVERY   ONE   TO  HIS  TASTE 

** Where's  your  mother?" 

M.    Bassinet   entered   the   porter's   lodge 
after  having  wiped  his  large  boots  on  the 
door-mat  in  the  passage. 
[175I 


Birds  of  a  Feather  ^ 

"You're  home  early,  Papa/'  replied  Sophie, 
who  was  watering  the  pot  of  pansies  in  the 
window,  with  a  thousand  precautions. 

**Lolotte  was  tired;  me,  too.  Since  morn- 
ing weVe  whisked  from  Dauphine  to  Vin- 
cennes,  and  from  Montpernasse^  to  Mont- 
mertre^ — We've  neither  of  us  stopped  a 
minute.  Ah!  is  it  fried  potatoes  you're 
cooking,  Mama  Chignole.^  If  it's  not  too 
much  trouble,  cut  them  very  thin;  they're 
crisper  that  way.  Well!  —  Where's  your 
mother?" 

"Mama  Chignole"  kept  her  eyes  lowered 
upon  the  potatoes,  while  Sophie  hid  the  red 
in  her  cheeks  by  leaning  outdoors. 

"Gadding  about  the  neighbourhood!  If 
I  had  known  it,  I  should  not  have  hurried 
myself.  Ah,  these  women!  Their  tongues! 
— their  tongues!" 

He  was  launched  upon  his  great  monologue 
on  feminine  garrulity,  its  causes  and  effects, 
when  Madame  Bassinet  came  in  like  a  whirl- 


^Prononciation  Bassinet. 

mid. 


176] 


The  Best  Way 

wind,  but  stood  transfixed  at  sight  of  her 
husband,  whose  presence  she  had  not  sus- 
pected. 

''Here  already?'' 

"Yes.  But  what  does  that  mean?"  His 
large  forefinger  pointed  at  her  elaborate 
costume. 

Madame  Bassinet  had  not  worn  a  wedding 
ring  thirty  years  not  to  know  that  the  way 
to  prove  yourself  in  the  right  is  to  bluster: 

*'Yes;  I  am  dressed  up  to-day!  And  what 
of  it?  Haven't  I  the  right!  Must  I  always 
be  looking  like  a  scrub-woman?" 

She  awaited  the  good  smack  which  would 
permit  her  to  close  the  incident  in  tears, 
but  M.  Bassinet  was  content  to  ask  very 
gently : 

''Where  have  you  been?" 

She  threw  her  umbrella  and  handbag  on 
the  table,  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  thrust 
the  pins  into  it  as  if  she  were  stabbing  the 
stronger  sex. 

"You  might  as  well  know.  I  have  been 
to  see  Vermilion." 

[177] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

"Has  anything  happened  to  our  Chig- 
nole?" 

"That's  not  what  I  went  for.  You  remem- 
ber, Chignole  was  apprenticed  to  a  bicycle 
manufacturer?  Well — the  man  has  made 
money  off  the  war.  He's  working  now  on 
airplanes  and  he  has  called  Chignole  back 
to  his  factory.  I  flew  up  there;  Vermilion 
waggled  his  thumb,  and  the  release  from 
military  duty  was  despatched!" 

"Vermilion  is  no  longer  minister." 

"That  doesn't  make  him  any  less  powerful. 
In  eight  days  your  son-in-law  once  more  a 
civilian — do  you  understand  that? — a  civilian 
— ^will  be  taking  his  cocktail  with  you." 

Sophie  kissed  her  mother.  "Mama  Chig- 
nole's"  eyes  lighted  up  with  unspeakable  joy. 
M.  Bassinet  chewed  the  ends  of  his  mous- 
tache. 

"You  seem  annoyed!  What  are  you  shak- 
ing your  head  about?" 

"No— but " 

"But  what?  I  know  what's  the  matter 
with  you — stupid!  You're  afraid  they'll 
[178] 


The  Best  Way 

call  him  a  slacker!  Slacker? — ^who  would 
dare?  Hasn't  he  done  his  duty,  that  boy, 
and  more?  Infantry,  aviation,  wounded, 
medal!  If  everybody  had  done  as  well  as 
he,  we'd  be  in   Berlin  by  now.    Ah!    And 

if  you  don't  approve,  who  cares Go  take 

his  place,  then ! " 

M.  Bassinet  submitted  to  the  insult, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  with  a  wry 
smile :  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Ma'me  Bassinet. 
It  is  true,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  am  no 
longer  good  for  anything." 

Whereupon,  Madame  Bassinet  was  seized 
with  remorse.  Realizing  that  she  had  gone 
a  little  too  far,  she  went  to  him  and  laid  her 
head  upon  his  breast: 

-"Give  me  a  big  blowing  up.  But  yes,  my 
poor  old  dear,  you  are  still  fit  to  be  a  grand- 
father." 


"Chignole  and  Frangipane;  the  Cap'n  is 
asking  for  you." 
They  left  the  mess,  where  they  had  been 
[179] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

smoking  as  they  watched  the  rainstorm,  and 
went  to  the  Captain's  office. 

He  invited  them  to  sit  down  on  the  petrol 
case  which  served  as  a  sofa.  Then,  vainly 
trying  to  soften  his  harsh  voice: 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  first,  before  the  news 
spread,  that  your  friend — that  our  friend — 
has  been  killed  within  the  German  lines. 
Headquarters  has  sent  me  last  night's  German 
wireless.  They  announce  a  bombing  plane 
brought  down  by  their  guns  in  exactly  the 
region  where  our  artillery  observers  saw 
Papa  Charles  go  down.  The  pilot  was  killed. 
There's  no  doubt  about  it."  He  rammed  his 
pipe  to  keep  his  countenance.  Chignole  and 
Frangipane  said  nothing,  and  the  silence  was 
filled  with  the  noise  of  the  rain  on  the  roof. 

"There's  no  need  to  say  anything.  You 
understand  me.  The  Country — ^The  Flag 
— For  France — I've  said  the  words  twenty 
times  over  the  tomb  or  to  the  memory  of  all 
those  children  who  were  given  into  my  care, 
and  whom  Fate  has  taken  from  me.  But  I 
would  like  you  to  know  how  much  I  regret 
[i8o] 


The  Best  Way 

them.  They  have  died  of  their  own  free 
will,  as  an  example;  to  show  their  comrades 
by  their  heroic  suicides  what  a  Frenchman 
will  do.  War,  like  religion,  has  its  martyrs. 
These  are  they. 

"I  sent  for  you  also  to  say  good-bye  to  you, 
or  rather  to  receive  your  farewells.  Yes; 
you  are  to  leave  me.  I  have  received  two 
messages  concerning  you.  One  releases  Chig- 
nole  from  military  service  and  sends  him  into 
a  factory;  the  other  sends  Frangipane  to  the 
School  at  Pau,  to  learn  to  be  a  pilot." 

Their  eyes  went  instinctively  to  the  map 
on  the  wall,  where  the  bombarded  objectives 
are  marked  with  a  red  circle,  then  to  the 
pennant  of  the  squadron,  adorned  with  the 
fourragere.  They  were  on  the  point  of  break- 
ing down,  but  they  stiffened  and  saluted. 

The  Captain  held  out  his  hand:  *^ Au 
revoir,  Frangipane — come  back  to  us  soon. 
There  will  always  be  a  place  for  you  here. 
AdieUy  Chignole." 

The  door  slammed.  The  two  friends  were 
gone.  The  Captain  stood  musing,  his  mind 
[i8i] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

fixed  on  the  vision  of  all  this  youth  mowed 
down  before  its  time.  Then,  shaking  off  his 
sad  mood,  he  called  through  the  telephone 
in  a  dry,  monotonous  voice:  "Six  machines 
ready  for  three  o'clock — one  hundred  Htres  of 
petrol,  twelve  bombs." 

At -mess — ^where,  through  an  indiscretion  of 
the  secretary,  the  two  transfers  were  already 
known — bottles  of  champagne  were  stripped 
of  their  straw  and  the  Head  of  the  Mess  had 
taxed  his  wits  to  arrange  the  bill  of  fare  for  a 
farewell  breakfast,  rather  a  heavy  one. 


In  the  train  they  seemed  to  take  a  lively 
interest  in  the  landscape,  but  in  reality  each 
was  following  his  own  thoughts. 

For  Frangipane,  this  was  the  supreme 
reward :  he  was  to  be  a  pilot,  his  own  master, 
the  brain  of  the  machine,  the  tamer  of  the 
beast;  he  was  to  take  the  responsibilities,  no 
longer  to  be  a  piece  of  luggage.  Nevertheless, 
a  great  sadness  filled  his  heart.  Only  a 
few  months  ago  they  had  come  to  the  front, 
[182] 


The  Best  Way 

four  friends,  so  congenial,  so  closely  identified, 
that  they  were  like  one  man.  Death  had 
taken  two,  and  would  Ufe  spare  the  third? 

Since  the  news  of  his  return  to  the  rear, 
Chignole  had  been  an  enigma.  At  the  break- 
fast he  had  spoken  only  when  he  was  obliged 
to,  and  now,  sunk  in  his  corner,  he  pretended 
to  watch  the  smoke  of  the  engine  as  it  floated 
alongside  the  train. 

Frangipane  wanted  to  be  certain,  though 
certainty  might  mean  pain. 

"Chignole,  I  have  a  proposal  to  make. 
To-morrow  I  shall  go  to  the  department,  and 
Vm  not  boasting  when  I  say  that  at  my 
suggestion  they  will  give  you  an  appoint- 
ment as  pilot-pupil.     Should  you  like  that?" 

The  eager,  enthusiastic,  noisy  Chignole 
was  now  quiet,  reasonable,  cool:  **I  should 
like  it — if  you  think  it  possible. " 

His  eyes  gave  the  lie  to  his  lips.  Frangi- 
pane took  pity  on  him  and  did  not  prolong 
his  torment: 

"After  all Well,  go  back  to  the  fac- 
tory— as  they've  asked  for  you." 

[183] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

'  Chignole  felt  keenly  the  mute  reproach  in 
what  this  last  one  of  his  old  friends  had  left 
unsaid.  He  wished  that  he  had  sufficient  con- 
trol of  himself  to  cry  out:  "Well,  yes;  Til  go 
with  you;  Fll  break  my  neck — or  be  an  ace!'* 
But  no,  he  couldn't.  He  no  longer  had  his 
nerves  under  good  control.  He  had  seen  too 
many  of  his  companions  die.  The  deaths 
of  Flagada  and  Papa  Charles,  coming  so 
close,  one  upon  the  other,  had  shocked  him, 
depressed  him,  overwhelmed  him.  Was  he 
to  be  condemned  without  excuse.?  Since 
chance  put  off  the  fatal  moment,  should  he 
not  take  advantage  of  it?  Life  was  offered 
him,  and  was  he  to  reject  it?  There  was 
Sophie,  his  wife,  his  very  soul  and  his  own 
flesh,  awaiting  him  at  the  end  of  the  journey. 
There  was  love,  family  life,  the  future;  there 
was  workaday  Paris  and  the  Paris  of  holi- 
days; there  was  money  to  buy  happiness; 
finally,  there  was  his  mother  whose  old 
age  he  could  smooth.  Should  he  refuse 
Paradise,  now  that  the  way  back  to  it  was 
made  easy?    It  was  not  as  if  he  had  asked 

[  184  ] 


The  Best  Way 

this  favour.  It  had  been  offered  him,  and 
he  would  take  it.  He  was  not  a  saint;  he 
was  a  man  who  wanted  to  live.  War  had 
educated  him,  had  opened  up  to  him  horizons 
hitherto  invisible.  Now,  he  knew  joys  in 
which  he  longed  to  share;  and  why  should 
he  not,  indeed,  since  he  had  already  done  all 
his  duty.? 

Still,  Frangipane,  too,  had  done  his  duty; 
yet,  instead  of  going  back  to  the  rear,  to 
safety,  he  was  deliberately  turning  his  face  to 
new  dangers- 

If  Papa  Charles  had  been  there,  with  his 
unwearying  kindness,  his  contagious  vitality, 
he  would  very  soon  have  convinced  Chignole, 
who  changed  his  mind  at  a  word;  he  would 
have  given  him  back  his  faith  in  himself. 
But  Frangipane,  with  his  unresponsive  face, 
his  elusive  manner,  seemed  to  him  already 
hostile. 

Paris. — They  separated  with  a  foolish  ex- 
cuse, and  said  good-bye  feeling  that  they 
should  never  see  each  other  again.  They 
were  already  strangers. 

[185] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

V.      CHIGNOLE   GETS   FAT 

It  was  the  end  of  November,  and  seven 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  Chignole  came  up 
out  of  the  station  of  the  "Metro  Blanche/' 
and  went  toward  the  Rue  Lepic.  He  turned 
up  his  collar,  for  the  rain  was  fine,  invisible, 
but  penetrating. 

Yellow  gleams  from  the  shops  streaked 
the  sticky  asphalt  and  lighted  the  pushcarts 
standing  at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  with 
their  wheels  in  the  refuse  of  the  gutter.  The 
houses  exhaled  a  stale  damp  smell  that 
mingled  with  the  city's  stench,  for  the  wind 
was  bringing  the  reeks  from  Aubervilliers. 
Housewives,  with  shopping  bags  in  their 
hands,  hurried  to  the  street  hawkers'  bas- 
kets, and  chatted  and  made  jokes  under 
their  bumping,  mixed-up  umbrellas.  .Little 
women,  unwashed  but  painted,  with  dogs 
tucked  under  their  arms,  went  down  toward 
the  bar-rooms  of  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy, 
stumbling  along  on  their  absurdly  high  heels. 
Sewing  girls,  going  back  up  the  hill  to  Mont- 
[i86] 


The  Best  Way 

martre,  were  buying  pork  sausage  and  vege- 
tables ''ready  cooked'*  for  their  dinner. 

Chignole,  crossing  the  street  to  make  a 
short  cut,  saw  someone  approaching  who 
looked  like  him.  It  was  merely  his  image 
reflected  in  the  glass  of  a  shop  window.  He 
stopped  to  look  at  himself,  but  the  examina- 
tion did  not  satisfy  him,  for  he  sighed. 

Here  was  no  longer  the  elegant  silhouette 
of  the  aviator,  with  his  English  jacket,  his 
laced  boots,  his  shoulder-belt,  and  the  jewels 
of  his  decorations.  This  was  the  image  of 
an  ordinary,  everyday  civilian  like  any- 
body else.  Only  the  boutonniere,  with  its 
edge  of  coloured  ribbons,  recalled  a  glorious 
past. 

In  this  street  where  once  men  and  women 
had  turned  to  look  at  him  as  he  passed,  the 
best  he  could  expect  now  was  not  to  be  jos- 
tled. In  the  military  uniform  he  had  been 
any  one's  equal;  now  he  had  become  once 
more  the  workman  with  hands  soiled  by 
work,  with  broken  nails — he  who,  in  the 
escadrille,  had  pohshed  his  nails,  like  Flagada. 

1 187] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

He  suffered  from  the  promiscuousness  of 
the  factory.  Where  were  the  witty  retorts 
of  Papa  Charles — the  conversations  at  mess 
which  had  meant  so  much  to  him?  Where 
were  those  unforgettable  days  of  aerial  war- 
fare; the  raid  on  Germany,  the  battle  in  the 
sky,  the  anguish  over  encompassing  danger^ 
the  fighting  against  elements  and  men  un- 
chained; the  triumphant  returns,  and  the 
wedding  procession  across  Nancy,  winked  at 
by  benevolent  authority  ? 

He  had  nothing  to  complain  of:  his  work 
on  the  motors  interested  him;  he  was  earning 
high  wages;  he  was  prolonging  his  honeymoon 
with  Sophie,  to  the  delight  of  the  old  mothers. 
Still,  he  was  not  happy.  He  did  not  breathe 
easily  here  at  the  rear,  where  everything,  even 
himself,  seemed  too  narrow.  The  outlook  of 
his  wife,  his  mother,  the  Bassinets,  was  not  his 
own.  He  had  to  force  himself,  to  bore  himself, 
to  keep  in  tune  with  them. 

Once,  he  had  gone  into  a  bar  where  he  knew 
he  should  meet  comrades  on  leave: 

"How  fat  you're  getting!"  they  had  said 
[  188  J 


The  Best  Way 

to  him,  meaning  it  as  a  compliment.  But  he 
never  went  back. 

He  bought  the  Liberie  which  a  ragged  boy 
was  hawking  in  the  corner  of  a  doorway,  and 
he  ran  through  the  bulletin  mechanically,  un- 
der a  gas  jet.  His  eyes  went  to  the  news  of  the 
war  in  the  air:  "Adjutant  de  la  Gueryniere 
has  brought  down  his  fifth  airplane." 

"La  Gueryniere — La  Gueryniere" — he 
stammered. — "Why,  that's  Frangipane!"  A 
flush  of  pride  mounted  to  his  face,  but  at  the 
same  time  he  was  stirred  by  painful  agitation*. 

"That's  what  /  might  have  been — an  ace. 
I,  too,  might  have  been  cited  in  the  bulletin. 
My  name  might  have  been  in  the  newspapers 
— in  history.  My  photograph  on  the  covers 
of  the  illustrated  magazines.  But — I  needed 
Papa  Charles;  by  myself,  I  hadn't  the  sand." 

It  is  easy  to  see  what  we  might  do,  but 
we  make  so  many  things  our  excuse  for 
clinging  to  life;  a  thousand  little  rootlets 
issuing  from  our  hearts  tie  us  to  earth  and 
prevent  our  flight. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Durantin  he 
[  189  ] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

heard  himself  hailed  by  M.  Fondu  who  was 
also  returning  to  the  bosom  of  the  family. 
M.  Fondu  was  a  changed  man.  All  of  a 
sudden  he  had  felt  warlike  appetites  arise 
in  him.  At  the  City  Hall  he  was  now  nick- 
named, "the  General,"  and  privately  he  was 
flattered.  He  could  not  go  to  the  front, 
but  his  combative  instincts  overflowed  into 
numerous  extraordinary  memorials  which  he 
addressed  to  competent  ministers,  "To  be 
used  where  they  will  do  the  most  good." 

"My  boy,  I  have  just  put  the  last  touch 
to  a  report  on  aviation.  IVe  been  looking 
a  long  time  for  a  title.  You  know  the  title 
is  everything.  But  IVe  found  it.  *How 
To  Make  Her  Hum!'  What  do  you  think 
of  it?" 

The  ramblings  of  "the  General,"  which 
Chignole  was  careful  not  to  interrupt,  led 
them  to  the  Rue  des  Saules.  M.  Bassinet, 
on  the  doorstep,  beckoned  them  to  hasten  their 
steps:  "Hurry  up!  Come  on!  We  want 
time  to  sip  our  lemon  and  gentian  cocktail 
quietly  before  we  sit  down  to  the  table." 
[  190  ] 


The  Best  Way 

The  first  thing  which  struck  Chignole  as 
he  entered  the  lodge  was  his  picture  as  a 
soldier,  "an  enlargement  very  highly  finished 
and  resembling  him  exactly,"  according  to 
his  father-in-law.  The  soldier  in  the  frame 
seemed  to  mock  the  civilian.  He  was  gen- 
uinely unhappy  and  it  was  with  an  absent- 
minded  **good  evening"  that  he  replied  to 
his  family's  noisy  demonstrations  of  affection. 

**  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Chignole " 

"Oh,  not  Chignole — ^Arthur;  Chignole's  a 
back  number.  Chignole — that's  over  and 
done  with." 

Tired  out,  he  went  to  the  window  and 
leaned  his  head  heavily  against  the  cold  pane 
of  glass. 

The  women  were  troubled,  but  M.  Bassinet 
quieted  them: 

"Pshaw!  A  cloud  which  will  vanish — 
when  he  knows  about  the  surprise,"  and 
with  a  wink,  "Go  to  it,  Ma 'me  Bassinet." 

Madame  Bassinet  hesitated  coyly,  but  her 
husband,  assuming  a  Httle  of  his  forgotten 
authority,  insisted: 

[  191  ] 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

**Go  to  it,  Ma 'me  Bassinet.  Go  ahead! — 
Out  with  it!     It's  high  time  to  tell  him." 

Madame  Bassinet  wiped  her  eyes  with  a 
duster  which  she  carried;  "Mama  Chignole" 
was  knitting  baby  socks  harder  than  ever;  M. 
Bassinet  murmured  a  broad  joke  to  M.  Fondu, 
who  had  abandoned  his  grandiose  dreams  for 
the  moment.     Sophie  lowered  her  eyes. 

Chignole  started  up!  Father?  He  was 
to  be  a  father!  A  child!  His  name,  his 
blood  perpetuated.  The  future  which  had 
escaped  him  hitherto  belonged  to  him  now. 
His  mortifications,  his  regrets,  his  deceptions, 
his  fears,  were  to  melt  away  beneath  the 
white  curtains  of  a  cradle. 

**If  it's  a  girl,"  clamoured  M.  Bassinet, 
"we'll  call  her  Victoria.  And  if  it's  a  boy.? 
— ^well,  what  shall  we  name  it  if  it's  a  boy?" 

Then  in  the  silence  caused  by  the  general 
emotion  "Mama  Chignole's"  voice  arose  very 
clear: 

"If  it's  a  boy,  we'll  call  it  Papa  Charles." 

THE    END 
[  193  ] 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


UNIVEESITY   OF   CALIFORNIA   LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


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